Packing Up: The Final Chapter

Bon Gia! Another sunny day here in Rio. Interestingly, it has not rained one single drop in the entire 2+ weeks I have been here in South America. How lucky is that?!



Today, the last full day of my adventure, I face the task of repacking my bulging suitcase and heading back to the North Hemisphere. The realization that this fantastic trip is coming to an end comes with mixed emotions and a hint of meloncholy as I see it come to close.



I spent most of the final day here in Rio de Janeiro at the beach. I was able to actualize a wild, perhaps-even-silly fantasy of mine that I had months ago when I first began imagining where this journey would take me. Of all the experiences I wanted to have while on this visit to South America, this was something I was almost looking forward to the very most - and yesterday, it came true for me.



I remember back in 1962, at the ripe age of nine years old, I first heard the world-wide sensational bossa nova smash hit, "The Girl from Ipanema", performed by Astrud Gilberto accompanied by the smooth, unforgettable solo on saxophone by the great Stan Getz. The song won a Grammy as "Record of the Year" in 1965, and everyone knew the words and melody. It was a song that, as a kid, evoked a place so far away and so exotic, I thought it could have been in another galaxy- this mysterious beach called Ipanema. Honestly, I had no idea where in the world it was, it was just somewhere very "cool", glamorous, exotic and hip I remembered thinking. To this very day, this song remains one of my favorite tunes of all time!



So yesterday as I donned my swimwear, towels, sandals and sunglasses, and my iPod, I walked the route down Rua Francisco Octaviano - the street that this famous young woman, tall, tanned, lean and lovely, strolled down on her way to sea, looking straight ahead (not at he) as everyone she passed went "Ahhhhh..." (go ahead now, sing along!) - listening to "The Girl from Ipanema" on my headphones. Actually, it was such a thrill for me, I listened to the song about 10 times, back-to-back. If you could have seen the smile on my face, you would have smiled too. .... It was another stellar moment for me and a totally surreal connection I made to my past that spanned almost fifty years. Here I was now: aging, retired and bald-headed and walking barefoot on the white, sandy beach: The Man from Ipanema!



As I pack up to return home, I reflect today on all of the ups and downs (literally) of this incredible trek through Latin America and think back to the agony and ecstasy I have experienced, the hundreds of thousands of faces I've studied and greeted, the heroes, angels and the few nemeses I've encountered, both the stunning beauty and abject poverty to which I've born witness and all of spectacular scenery and architecture I've had to privilege of observing. I have absorbed a ton of history and culture going back thousands of years. My expectations have, by far, been surpassed!



Yes, it has, at times, been extremely difficult, but I fully understood this heading into this Southern Hemisphere expedition. I remember Kathy, my agent, telling me during our first meeting, "Traveling in South America is NOT like traveling in Europe. It's entirely different." Oh, how right she was! At times, the world seemed to be upside-down and covered in molasses; everything moved so laboriously slow. Nothing worked right. Nothing made any sense. And there were days that my brain actually hurt from the frustration and fatigue.



But as I've told people, this is the kind of travel that turns me on. It's like casting myself in a real-life video game. I honestly crave this type of challenge.



Everything I had hoped for in this tour has been realized. I've seen two Modern Wonders of the World. I've seen trees covered in lizards, monkeys, a rare sighting of a sloth and new plants that have boggled the science center of my mind. I have crossed over the Equator (a dream I have had since childhood), walked in the footsteps of the powerful kings and queens of the Inca Empire, and lived the lush and luxurious life in the city of civilization's greatest parties: Carnival! I have laughed and cried, battled and chilled, learned and unlearned and connected again with globalism, multi-culturalism and humanity. I have lived it, thrived in it and survived.



For all of you who have walked this winding, often-tumultuous, exhilarating 28,000 mile path with me, on this last day of my blog, I say "gracias", "obrigado", thank you. I say "adios", "adeus", good-bye!

I send each of you my love. Juanito

A Little Sugar on Top

Oh, how sweet it was!



Today, I visited the third and final crown jewels on Rio's tourism "must-see" checklist: Sugarloaf Mountain. The sprawling beaches of Copacabana and Ipanema, Christ the Redeemer and Sugarloaf are essential stops on any stay here in this magnificent metropolis whose population has exploded to over 6 million in the last decade. The beaches were handily located, thanks to my agent's skillful placement of my hotel, and O Christo Redentor, with its outstretched arms calling to me from the distant heavens, had to come second in line. Sugarloaf Mountain could wait a few days.



Referred to as "Sugarloaf", its name is said to refer to its resemblance to the traditional shape of refined, concentrated loaf sugar, which is how sugar was produced and sold up until the 19th Century when granulated and cube sugar wer introduced. I had honestly always thought it referred to (and appeared like) a large loaf of sweet bread until I did my research. Ah...the many wonderful, unexpected things we learn when we travel!



Again, my personal chauffeur in Rio, Carlos, transported me in his fancy, state-of-the-art mini-limousine (complete with two televisions on board as well as a killer sound system) and whisked me down the long boulevard, the parade route with permanent bleachers installed on both sides designated as the official "Carnival" route and delivered me to the Pau de Acucar (Sugarloaf Mountain in Portuguese) Visitors' Center. As always, especially with such a world-famous tourist trap such as this, there were hundreds of black and yellow cabs, looking like a swarm of bees, deftly buzzing about dropping off and retrieving thousands of sightseers like me. Today, however, Carlos had no ticket "express lane" tricks up his sleeve, but he had performed the ultimate miracle previously when it really counted. So no tip was forthcoming for him on this day, and I could sense he was a bit disappointed. But really, today it was just a simple taxi ride.

Back into "queue up" mode I went, hopefully today for the last time on this trip with the exception, of course, for the long airplane rides home later this week. Into the cordoned off section, herded like sheep, we all formed lines to the ticket windows to pay our R$44 (about 22 US dollars) to get into yet another line to wait our turns in groups of 65 to load into the bubble-shaped, Italian-made cable cars that would scoop us up and take us to the top of Sugarloaf Mountain.



There are several cable cars, which were first installed to take passengers to the summit back in 1912 (which I found astonishing), and one must make two seperate lifts. The first stop along the 4600 foot-long route is to Urca Mountain, Pau de Acucar's little brother, where you can stop, enjoy the already-splendid views of the surrounding largos (bays) and beaches and where Sugarloaf is "ready for its close-up, Mr. DeMille." This respite also allows the faint-of-heart to catch one's breath before embarking onto to the next cable car for the final ascent to the pinnacle, everyone's destination.

Lifting off the ground and dangling over the thick, forested jungle of Urca Mountain and then ultimately 1,400 feet over the Atlantic Ocean at an estimated 45 degree angle (I felt sorry for anyone with acrophobia, and it sounded like there were several inside the gently-swinging cable car with us), the hanging, human conveyor belt ascended quickly and confidently to the crest of Sugarloaf. The ride, which provides a 360 degree view, the most incredible vistas - even better than Corcovado Mountain, which I thought was impossible. The landscape all up and down the entire region is dotted with dozens and dozens of towering morros, monolithic outcroppings of granite and quartz, the largest of which is Sugarloaf, and much to my surprise there were many more than just the ones I'd seen surrounding the city of Rio de Janeiro. They are extremely impressive, and a sight to behold! Never in my life have I seen anything like them.

Once atop the crest of Sugarloaf, there is not much to do but stand in awe at the beauty of the surrounding region, take as many pictures as possible to record the magic, breathe in the fresh, cool air, and watch the hundreds of giant, circling and almost-menacing frigate birds (also known as "man-o-war" birds for their buzzard-like presence overhead and wing spans of over 4 feet). There are some small shops, bars and kiosks atop the mountain, and I scratched my head trying to figure out how all those building materials, let alone the gigantic steel structures for the cable cars themselves, were transported to such perilous heights. Oh, what a wondrous world we live in, and how amazing we as human beings are when we make up our minds to get somewhere or build something.

After an hour or so of lounging on top of Sugarloaf and taking a big bite of this delicious site, I queued up again for the trip back to sea level and to Carlos, who had waited patiently at the base the entire time. For his loyal patience this time, I did tip him handsomely at last. Back to the hotel we went.

The trip to Sugarloaf Mountain today, a the last in a series of mountains I've stood atop, completes my official trifecta of tours of Rio. Tomorrow is beach day, a day to do nothing but sip coconut milk right out of the shell, bask in the absolutely flawless weather here, work on deepening my Brazilian tan and enjoying the waning day or two of my extraordinary trip to this wonderful city, which I learned today is appropriately named "The Magnificent City". Please, everyone, start making plans to come here!

It's going to be very hard to say "good-bye" to Rio on Wednedsay....

Christ the Redeemer

How lucky can any one human being be to see TWO of the New Seven Wonders of the World in the same week? Count me as one of them.

Any visit to Rio de Janeiro MUST include a stop at O Cristo Redentor, or The Christ the Redeemer, statue which towers over the city of Rio and is one of the most recognizable icons of Brazil and a universal symbol of Christianity known world-wide. Considered to be the largest Art Deco statue in the world, Christ the Redeemer looms over Rio at a staggering height of 2,300 feet. It is 130 feet tall, 98 feet wide and weighs a whopping 635 tons of reinforced concrete and soapstone. The colossal sculpture took nine years to construct between the years 1922 and 1931 at a cost of $250,000 mostly from donations made by Brazilian Catholics. In recent years, the statue has sustained some nasty injuries. In February, 2008, it was struck by lightning and sections of the fingers and head were zapped and damaged. In April, 2010, some fools sprayed graffiti on the sculptures head and right arm. (How the hell did they get access to it with all the security surrounding it? Perhaps a new candidate for the next wonders of the world"! )

My trip up to Corcovado Mountain was arranged by the friendly staff at the Mercure Hotel where I'm staying after my inquiries about how to most easily get up and back. The concierge informed me that this site is always packed with tourists due to its popularity and especially recently because of the spectacular weather and clear skies. He warned me that it would not be easy but gave me several options. I could take a city taxi up to the site and battle the crowds on my own, but I would only be dropped off at the base of the mountain and have to take a shuttle bus from there to the top which would take a considerable amount of time. Or, I could have the hotel driver, Carlos, drive me there and he would be able to deliver me to the top of the mountain at the entrance, wait 2 hours for me and bring me back. Of course, this option would come with a bigger price tag.

Hmmmm...quick inner debate. Take half a day and go back into battle or ride in a brand-new, air-conditioned mini-limo and get "express lane" service. Considering that, at this point, I've only used less than half of the spending money I'd brought with me and only three days left, it was really a no-brainer for me. "Call Carlos!," I told him without hesitation.

Within 10 minutes, after grabbing my camera, a my trusty bandana to keep my bald head from being burned under the bright Brazilian sky, my ever present water bottle, my sunglasses, and yes - a big handful of cash, we set off for the mountain. Through the busy streets of Rio, winding around several of its residential neighborhoods, through a long, spooky tunnel, past two lakes full of canoes and sailboats, past thousands of palm trees and giant, tropical plants that I could not even begin to identify, Carlos turned off the freeway and began the long descent up Corcovado Mountain. At one point, in his broken and extremely limited English, he pointed out the point at which the regular taxi would have abandoned me. With his special tourism credential badge, which he flashed at the authorities, we zipped past the gates and the hundreds of less-fortunate pilgrims who were waiting for transport up the hillside. We both chuckled a little feeling a hint of sympathy toward them and also at how wonderful this more privileged option was turning out to be!

Up the zigzagging, cobblestone switchback we went, a hundred or more hairpin curves, back and forth, upward and upward, large mansions with tall, walled gates and banana trees adorning the yards, sections of lush, tropical jungle with vines dangling from incredible heights and choking the trunks of the trees from which they were born. My eyes, full of bewilderment, could not believe the number of species of exotic plants, so with leaves six feet across, that were flashing by! It was a botanist's dream come true. At one point, the car in front of us slowed, and we were treated by a family of six Marmoset monkeys crossing the roadway. Everyone stopped respectfully and curiously - and with great delight - to observe this crossing. Later, Carlos, with his well-trained tour guide eye, suddenly slowed and pointed out with excitement (even in his voice I could hear it was a novelty for him) a very special cameo appearance by a large, maned, medium-brown, three-toed sloth lazily maneuvering its way across a branch overhanging the road. Incredible!

Finally, after this wild, rollercoaster-like climb, strangely reminiscent of last week's ascent to Machu Picchu, we arrived at the official entrance to the O Cristo Redentor site. A long line of at least one thousand people stretched out in front of the gates, much to my chagrin and discouragement, but as we passed a man holding a thick roll of white entrance tickets, Carlos rolled down his window, spoke a few words of Portuguese to him and - voila - in through the window came my ticket. Carlos smiled, looked at me and said, "You just pay me later. It's OK; you go!" So out I went, right through the main gates and up toward the enormous, 31 feet tall, black marble platform on which Jesus Christ, standing with His arms open wide to the entire world, stood before me.

What an amazing site. On such a perfect day, the light on my subject was perfect. With the gorgeous blue sky as a background and the pale grey soapstone, I was fascinated by the contrast. Digital cameras and cell phones beeped, clicked and buzzed all around me as everyone, countless numbers of whom were standing with their arms outstretched as if to mimic the statue, were posing for their pictures. The crowd was thick, it was difficult to maneuver into position for some of the shots I wanted, but patience, a photographer's best friend, helped me in this important task. The statue of Christ the Redeemer is absolutely awe-inspiring up close. The dimensions, scale and size of it are indeed worthy of its notoriety.

Beyond the statue, after taking a large set of photographs, I continued on toward the narrow platform which boasts the best view of all of the city of Rio de Janeiro. Understandably, every person who comes to Cordovado Mountain must work his or her way to the extreme edge of this viewing area that overlooks the entire region and yields a 270 degree, territorial vista of the world below - the sprawling city, the dozens of sandy beaches, the glistening lakes, grand Sugarloaf Mountain, the jagged granite outcroppings shoved skyward from the ground punctuating the landscape everywhere below. It is a sight worthy of the 30 minutes it took me to systematically weasel my way through the multi-national mob, using (just a couple of times admittedly) "Frenchie's" techniques since all bets were off in my attempt to reach THE prime spot and considering everyone else was using their own gladiator tactics to get to the same place for their one minute of glory. In the end, my two-foot space finally opened up long enough for me to squeeze in, snap some pictures and even a short video clip, panning from east to west and capturing the whole scene in panorama. As soon as I turned to walk away, the space was filled again instantly as if in a vacuum.

So thanks to a wise decision made back at the hotel, a crafty driver with "connections" named Carlos (one of several angels who have appeared to me on this adventure), and a beautiful, sunny day gifted to me, my visit to this shrine - a "must-see" for any person who comes to Rio, was complete, successful, swift and convenient.

I promise you that in the next two years, as the 2016 Olympics come to Rio de Janeiro, the image of Christ the Redeemer will be an integral and emblematic image that will become inextricably associated with the games and one that I will have a very special, personal connection to after this most memorable day.

Arpoador on the Rocks

It could not have been a more beautiful and magical night.

Just steps away from my hotel just three short blocks from Copacabana Beach, I sat down at a small, trendy, open-air bar recommended by the staff at the front desk and ordered a meal of deep-fried, Brazilian-style hot 'n' spicy chicken, a bowl of hot black bean soup with crisp calamari croutons and parsley, and a basket of sinfully delicious pommes frites (fries)smothered in cheese, which I have been craving like crazy for the past 10 days, and two bottles of chilled, bubbly, super-quenching tonic water. The warm evening air, 65-70 degrees, reminded me of Indian summer back home- soothing, refreshing, just the right amount of coolness to take the edge off the gentle heat and not a trace of humidity. The ideal weather for a human being, I thought; it doesn't get any better than this.

All around me sitting at the petite bistro table settings were sets of couples, both young and old, eating, drinking and engaged in lively conversation. Brazilians speak Portuguese, a language I find exquisitely pleasing, unique and poetic, almost sounding like a blend of Spanish, Italian and French - and they speak it with passion! Listening carefully to them, it almost sounds like they are engaged in heated argument, but then they laugh and raise a hand to caress a cheek or smile lovingly at one another. It's common for both people to talk simultaneously - and loudly as well - and always accompanied by loads of animated hand gestures. Sitting alone and tuning in to the different conversational channels around me as I dined on my decadent cuisine was fascinating, revealing and highly entertaining.

Savoring the fine flavors and satisfying meal, I decided to take a stroll down toward Copacabana Beach and walk along the waterfront, lined with swaying palm trees and scores of giant coconuts lying everywhere on the ground. The Copa is the birthplace of surfing in Brazil, and people still in the water on their boards hanging five can still be seen even at dusk. The sound of the thunderous waves crashing onto the white, sandy beaches pulled me like a magnet. The sidewalks and mile-long boardwalk, Rio's version of the Malecon, are made of billions of hand-cut, porcelain fragments fashioned and inlaid into a beautiful, hypnotic mosaic pattern. It's like walking on a work of art with every step.

Standing at the beach and looking in both directions, to the right I observed the world-famous Copacabana and the lights of Rio's skyline, both stunningly beautiful, and to the left I spot the infamous Rocks of Arpoador- a cluster of enormous, magnificent granite behemoths that stand boldly, 100 feet or more, against the force of the surging Atlantic breakers. Arpoador means "fishermen with harpoons", and the rocks were named after the brave fishermen who used to harpoon the whales that came to reproduce in these warm, tropical waters.

Beckoning to me quietly and mischievously, they became irresistible to me! I decided to climb them. After that meal of 10,000 calories, I figured I needed to burn a few of them off.

Slowly winding my way up the well-worn pathways engraved into the earth by countless tourists, surfers, fishermen and locals, I wound my way up to the highest vantage point on the big grand-daddy of all the Rocks of Arpoador. From here, with the entire city of Rio de Janeiro stretched out before me in a panoramic view, glowing with lights twinkling like a Christmas tree, Sugarloaf Mountain softly lit by the moon in the distant background, the stars fully-lit overhead, the cool ocean breeze swirling around me and the roar of the surf pounding onto the beach, my spirit suddenly rejoiced like a choir of angels. The setting was as perfect and picturesque as anyone could find anywhere on God's green Earth.

For those of you who know me well and know that I cry more when I'm happy than when I'm sad, you will understand why my eyes filled with mist at this triumphant stance I took on this glorious night on the towering Rocks of Arpoador.

And in that one moment and the next hour I sat and soaked it all in...every penny it took to get here, every drop of sweat, every new wrinkle on my brow, every trial and tribulation that I faced in reaching these majestic rocks....all became worth it.

Like Going From Night to Day

Brazil- Finally, a country with its act together!!

After an exhausting, nearly 24 hour "commute" from Lima through Santiago to Rio de Janeiro, I am experiencing a completely new and different world here in Brazil. Hallelujiah!!!

Landing at Antonio Carlos Jobim International Airport last night, 8 hours later than expected, frazzled, rumpled, fatigued and ready for the the next round of near-impossible hoops to jump through, I calcuted that I needed to accomplish four essential tasks in the least amount of time: baggage claim, immigration/customs inspection, traveler's checks conversion and catching a taxi to my hotel. As the Boeing aircraft clumsily skidded to the runway and came to a full stop, I called upon my adrenaline gland to work double duty, gathered my strength both physically and mentally and charged out of the airplane like a bullet.

Baggage claim: Usually, an easy, unfettered step if you can muscle your way toward the top of the carousel without being too "French" about it. Amazingly, my over-stuffed, well-worn, slightly ragged red suitcase was the third bag to be spit out and chugging along on its side. Wow. A break at last. Snatching that up, a sense of hope blossoming in my heart, I looked for the immigration line, which was conveniently marked and labelled next to the baggage area. Hmm...an intelligent system. How unusual!

Immigration: Since I had gathered a bit of momentum out of the plane and been so uncharacteristically LUCKY in my first task, I saw ahead of me only five people in line waiting to show their document. Brazil was the only country on this trip that required a visa, so my expectation was that it would also be the most complicated customs portal through which I would pass. There were 8 immigration booths open, all of which were staffed. My wait took 2 minutes. My turn at the window took 30 seconds...stamp, stamp, shuffle, shuffle, done, "Obrigado! Enjoy your stay in Brazil!" WHAT?! That was it?! 30 seconds. I was floored but increasingly giddy by this point.

Money exchange: Ok, some quick background. When I got my traveler's checks at the US bank in Everett, the woman who issued them to me just said, "Sign your name here at the top on each one" So, complying, I wrote my first name, middle initial and last name- the standard way I write my official signature. My first day in Ecuador, I asked the staff at the hotel where I could cash my traveler's checks. They instantly shook their heads and said that not very many banks will cash them in Ecuador; it's very tough to do. But they told me of a bank that would possibly do it. Mind you, all of my spending money for this excursion was locked up in these American Express notes. So went to the Banco Pacifico at their suggestion, and they tell me that yes, indeed they do exchange them. But when I presented my checks to the teller, she noticed that on my passport I had written (as instructed) my entire name- first, full middle name (not just the initial) and last, which did not match how I'd signed them in Everett. So she said they could not cash them. Talk about a gut-wrenching, nauseating feeling. I spent the next 4 hours wandering from bank to bank to bank until finally I found one that - thank God - didn't notice or seem to care! Now my new problem with my traveler's checks as the trip progressed was that somehow, mysteriously and tragically, some kind of liquid in my luggage (mouthwash, lotion, cologne) had leaked out (despite me double-checking everything to be sealed tight as a drum as I packed) and smeared off the first half of all my signatures on $800 worth of my checks! Just the most important parts of them, of course! So I was sure they were lost forever.

But here in Rio, with my renewed sense of luck and good fortune rising, I stopped at the money exchanger's booth and pulled out both the damaged set of checks as well as the other, intact ones I had left, still in prisitine condition, and inquired first about the soaked set. The two, friendly Brazilian money changers smiled at me and said, "Hey, no problem, we can still cash those for you. It's not a big deal. As long as you sign at the bottom, and it looks like your signature, it's OK." Incredible. Fantastic. Surreal. They cashed all of the bad ones on the spot. I could NOT believe the ease with which these first three hurdles had been jumped.

Taxi: I know from my experience that the "official airport taxi" system is a racket. They drive better cars. The drivers are slicker, better dressed and know how to work the tourists. However, the convenience of walking out the airport exit and hopping in an air-conditioned cab and being whisked away in an instant really appealled to me particularly on this night. All I wanted to do was get this final task done and be in my room. I asked the tall, dark-skinned driver dressed in a well-tailored suit, "How much to Copacabana?", and he responded "$R90" (the currency in Brazil is Reals). I said without even knowing, haha, "Ahhh...too much! Can you give me a better price?" Looking at me skeptically, he reluctantly said, "Ok, $R80" to which I agreed. I didn't know how much money I saved; all I knew was that I was behind the driver's seat in so many ways now and my confidence was surging.

Driving into the city of Rio de Janeiro, the air quality was excellent, unlike the grey, highly toxic, exhaust-filled air of Lima. Brazil must have emissions tests! There is no honking, very unlike Ecuador and Peru where taxis honk incessantly, for no reason at times; they just seem to like to toot their h0rns, so the streets are noisy and never silent. But tonight, riding into the city in my brand-new Honda Pilot, there was peace. It was a striking and welcomed contrast. The freeway and arterials were smooth, well-maintained and no trash was anywhere lining the streets, whereas many of the largers cities here in South America are blemished with piles of rubbish strewn everywhere with no sense of urgency to have them removed.

All in all, arriving in Rio like moving from day to night. From bewilderment into enlightenment, from chaos into order, from backward to forward. And now, I can simply focus on walking the beaches, swimming in the pool on the top floor of the hotel, seeing the magnificent views of this extraordinary and unique city, and finally feeling like I'm on a traditional "vacation" instead of battling my way through a mine field of challenges. Ahh...Rio, you are my oasis now!

Deja Vu All Over Again....

Ok, if I weren't so dog-tired and staggering around in a stupor after not sleeping more than 10-15 minutes tops since yesterday afternoon (my flight last night was after midnight, and I only dozed a bit en route on my way from Lima to Santiago), I might be extremely upset and foaming at the mouth. Instead, my only instinct is to laugh; this is getting to be HILARIOUS to me....

I arrived at the airport in Lima (again, meticulously on time), and step up to the ticket counter marked clearly "Departure Check-In". A very pretty Peruvian princess with shiny, raven-black, slicked-back hair and bright, smiling, beautiful brown eyes greet me with, "Do you have your boarding pass with you?" Hmmm, thinking to myself back in the States, that always comes after this step in the process, I tell her, "Sorry, no I don't. Where do I get one?" She directed me towards a small, electronic, automated, self-serve kiosk and directed me to use that in order to obtain the all-important Golden Ticket. I have actually used one of these before, but only to enter very basic preliminary information- name, flight number, destination, etc. But never to get a boarding pass. So I thought confidently, "Hey, I can handle this."

First obstacle: 'ENTER YOUR I.D. NUMBER'- At no point EVER has anyone given me or shown me or indicated I had an ID number. Figuring it could be on my plane ticket, I search and search through the hundreds of numerical codes printed all over it , and nowhere is there any hint of something that smacks of ID. Ok, perhaps it wants my passaporta number- so I tried that. Of course, INVALID! Seeing a group of uniformed airport employees jaw-jacking and just basically hanging out, I decided to put them to work and asked them for help. Three of them attempt to come to my rescue, most graciously, and the trio of them tried everything under the sun to locate the (at this point) dreaded ID number, eventually giving up, apologizing and redirecting back to the Check-In Department. Why did I not see this coming? Has no one ever used this stupid machine before? Or is just a conspiracy against me personally? It often feels that way.

Back to the pretty chica I started with. I tell her, despite every valiant effort to comply, I have failed to get my boarding pass. She says casually, "That's OK. I can give it to you here. Can I see your ticket please?" (Feeling like it's a "reality TV" prank show at this point, and the camera crew would be appearing any minute with lots of laughing crew people and the host patting me on the back for being a good sport...but no.)

She studied my ticket with a now-wrinkled and puzzled forehead. Looking up at me almost suspiciously, she asked, "Have you used this ticket before here in Peru?" Reassuring her that yes, indeed, I had and twice as a matter of fact, she calls for her supervisor. They have a side-bar discussion that lasts at least 15 minutes, occasionally tapping in information frantically into their computer, looking more and more confused and baffled by the minute. Of course, my stress level is beginning to climb at the same pace. Another huddle, this time with The Big Boss. I finally step in to ask if there is a problem, and they smile casually and say, "Oh, no- everything is fine, sir." It was now at least 30-40 minutes into my check-in, they appear as if they've never seen a ticket like mine in their entire careers...and they say there's no problem. Why is that hard to believe?

In the process of waiting this interminable amount of time, and actually to help pass the time (plus I really did need to know), I inquire if my bag would go directly to Rio (my final destination for this flight) or would I have to pick it up in Santiago and recheck it to Rio. She indicated that it would be routed straight through to Rio. Good news, less room for error, right?

So when Big Boss Man finally solves the never-seen-before-but-widely-recognized-in-the-Northern-Hemisphere ticket problem, the original agent presents me with my boarding pass. As she attaches the baggage claim sticker to my luggage, I just happen to notice it has the 3-letter airport code stamped with the letters, "SCL". Expecting it say something more like "RDJ" or "RIO", I hypothesize that she has erroneously just doomed my bag to Santiago where I never would have picked it up after she guaranteed it would go to Rio. Taking a deep breath, I spoke and told her I was confused about the tag, and she sheepishly apologized, tore it off and printed out a tag for Rio de Janiero. See? I'm learning to watch for these little Latin American shenanigans!

The flight to Santiago was delayed 30 minutes, no biggie, "caca" happens in the airline business. I accept that.

When I arrived in Chile, the connection was surprisingly swift and effortless, which was wonderful since I only had 45 minutes to connect to my next plane. I boarded the flight to Rio, settled in, buckled up, stretched out, yawned and tried to make peace with my seatmate who must have thought he owned 15% of my territory...sound familiar? The cabin crew went through the perfunctory motions and rituals of instructing everyone how to fasten a seat belt (when will they drop this archaic practice, by the way??) and showed us where the exits were, etc. etc. and soothing elevator-like music starts to play. Feeling suddenly as if I'm melting into the first comfort I've felt in 12 hours, I closed my tired and droopy eyes and began to doze off. Within a few minutes, eyes still shut, I heard the captain speaking, all Espanol of course, and open my eyelids to see ALL the passengers on board standing and in the process of disembarking. Unbelievable. Hey, thanks for telling ME, everybody!

The flight is now officially, "Delayed"...just one small step short of the ultimate nightmare of "Cancelled" status.

I asked a couple of people if they could tell me what was going on, and they told me (surprise!) that there was a "technical difficulty" with the plane. Everyone was being sent back to the gate. Absolutely hilarious to me now. Can so many things go wrong so consistently?? Does virtually every single simple task have to be infused with such incredible, absurd obstacles that one has to be either a saint, a psychic, a genius or a warrior or a combination of all four to navigate through all the complications and comedy of errors?

The story is almost over. Being an expert at waiting and luckily having plenty of battery left in my trusty laptop, I hung out for an hour or so, bought some mineral water, a couple of Chilean t-shirts for souvenirs and checked out the news on CNN. Two hours go by, my radar and eyes constantly trained toward the gate crew and reader board for updated information.

With absolutely no warning over the PA system and me a good 50 yard away, I suddenly observed a stampede of frantic passengers racing toward the gate with a flight crew member standing on some kind of make-shift soapbox, already speaking to the crowd of at least 200. Of course, every word is in Spanish, there are continuous overhead announcements about flight arrivals, etc. blaring above us, walkie-talkies beeping from every direction, passengers hurling questions and complaints simultaneously and me standing there stunned, dazed, lost at the extreme perimeter of the mob and chuckling out loud realizing that I just understood 0% of the entire proclamation he was making, which I instinctively knew was very important information. I just wasn't given the courtesy of receiving it. Not helpful when you're 6,500 miles from home in a foreign country, exhausted, confused and don't speak the language.

Searching for a friendly face in the crowd, I finally discover that a new plane is coming to replace the vexed one, and we will indeed by flying out in a couple of hours. Resolution? Maybe for now. But there are no guarantees at present in South America, with one exception: the rug WILL get pulled out from beneath you at every bend in the road every day you visit here.

So for me, the only way to COPE is to see the comedy of it all, just shake my head, take a chill pill, laugh it off and enjoy the ride- which, believe it or not- I am! Now ask me tomorrow, and you might get a different answer....

Fasten Your Seatbelts

It's going to be another long night.

I'm about to depart from Lima on my way to Rio de Janeiro this evening with a brief stop-over in Santiago, Chile, and it's bound to be another marathon of standing in line(s), going through immigration inspection(s), taking off my boots to go through security scanners, hauling my ever-growing ton of luggage, locating my flights on the dreaded airport reader boards (hoping NOT to see "cancelled" ever again in this lifetime!), clutching the uber-important boarding passes, ascending/descending the ubiquitous and universal escalators and hopefully by mid-afternoon tomorrow I will be safely and securely checking in at the Atlantis Copacabana Hotel in Rio.

Hey, no guts, no glory, right?