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?

The Faces of Peru

On my way to Ollantaytambo (I get such a kick out of that name!) the morning I went to Machu Picchu and just after I got "oops, there's a problem" #2,473, composing myself yet once again.....I saw this group of three Peruvian senoras selling water at a small, make-shift stand they had set up at the crack of dawn. Feeling slightly dehydrated, I decided to stock up on some agua for the long day ahead. As I approached them and saw them closely, I fell in love with their faces immediately. Poor, simple, hard-working, sweet and graceful. I decided to risk asking them if I could take their picture. (Note: I've found in my travels around the world that this request can go either way- some people absoultely refuse and are insulted - whereas others are delighted!) Fortunately, the latter was the case with these three. Not only did they eagerly agree, but in addition they asked for "uno momento", they scrambled around and pulled out these brightly colored hats and heavily-embroidered skirts, allowing me to snap this priceless picture. Little did I know that they were fully-prepared with PROPS and were ready to strike this pose as my own personal, professional Peruvian peasant models. A delightful surprise and in a snapshot, you can see the beauty, the soul and the spirit of the people here in Peru.

Machu Picchu Experience

So if you read yesterday's entry, you will know that my trip to the Lost City of the Incas was extremely long and arduous - and yet thrilling. After laying down last night around 9:30, I slept in a coma-like slumber until 12:30 PM this afternoon, which ironically is the exact amount of time it took me to get up to the citadel and back. Wow, talk about some major catch-up sleep!

By now you know that nothing comes easy when you travel to developing countries, so it came as no surprise when I showed up at 5:20AM at the train station here in Cusco - right on time - when I was immediately approached by a woman in a navy-blue PeruRail uniform who uttered those old, familiar, South American words, "We have a problem this morning." The train from Station 1 to Station 2 could not run because there was a landslide half way through the route and that we were being put on a dumpy little van and shuttled to Ollantaytambo (the last train station before Machu Picchu). But the buzz among the passengers (I'm getting really good at eavesdropping) is that this is actually GOOD NEWS since the trip by bus is significantly faster than by rail. Ok...I can dig that!

Long story short, the bus to the top of the archaeological site is gut-wrenching and wild. Finally, we arrived at the top, and the monument is swarming with people. Languages from every corner of the world were heard. Hippies with dreadlocks and backbacks, rich people ridiculously over-dressed for the occasion and regular ol' Joes (Palin reference again!@) like me.

Entering the park, which cost a whopping $64, I pray for strong lungs as I look ahead and see stone staircases reaching to heavens above. Will this elevation sickness issue (which I haven't felt all day) ruin probably my biggest stop on this adventure today of all days? Fortunately, I had no problems whatsoever. Yea!

Machu Picchu (which means "Old Mountain") was built starting in the year 1450 as a summer residence for the Inca royalty, but it was abandoned over 120 years later with the influx of the Spanish conquistadors. Most of its inhabitants died from chicken pox. In 1911, archaeologist Hiram Bingham discovered the site, and it remained in relative obscurity for many decades. In 2007, Machu Picchu was voted as one of the New Seven Wonders of the World, and rightly so.

It is absolutely stunning! Sitting on a high plateau and surrounded by four large mountains that point directly to the ordinal points on a compass (north, south, east, west), Machu Picchu was thought to be the most sacred place in the Inca Empire- information gleaned again from my expert eavesdropping talents. I've learned to hang around tour guides just discreetly enough to hear what they say buy not to raise suspicion.

Machu Picchu is made virtually all by stone quarried by hand from the imposing mountains nearby. There must be millions and millions of them, all fit together so tightly that they say you cannot fit a credit card in between the spaces- a standard I'm sure the artisans tested regularly! There are scores of large rooms, a plaza for ceremonial dances and rituals, houses, temples, storage silos and a palace for the king, I had read that the best vantage point for photos was up top at the highest point- The Temple of the Sun. So bravely and slowly taking each step at a time, I ascended to that spot and took the best picture of all- the one I'm sharing with you now.

As I stated last night, this experience will remain one of the richest and most impressive of my lifetime. If you can, you must go see it too! Just expected "a problem" or two along the way....

Success!

This will go down in blog history as THE shortest entry ever.

I made it up to Machu Picchu today!

It's been another LONG day- touring for over 15 hours which consisted of standing in line at the bus station, taking a rickety bus over a dusty, bumpy road to Ollantaytamba (2 hour ride), transferring to a train for another 2 hours, standing in line a LOT more (many thousands of people on the same route with me today but no line cutters!!), surviving a 20 minute harrowing, white-knuckle bus up the the top (OK..I'm already giving way too many details like I said I wouldn't- damnit!)...I will recount my day more tomorrow because I am literally in bed in my jammies with my eyelids feeling like lead, and I have to hit the sack like right now.

Suffice it to say- seeing Machu Picchu today will go down in my life's resume right up there at the VERY top with seeing (and climbing up inside) The Great Pyramid at Cheops, walking along the Great Wall, looking out over Paris from the Eiffel Tower, and standing as I first laid eyes on the magnificent and ethereal Taj Mahal with tears running down my face- just because it was that beautiful. Seeing this amazing archaeological site was an extraordinary and incredible experience! The Lost City of the Incas was found by me today!

Cusco, Capital of the Inca Empire

Cusco could NOT be any more different than Guayaquil; they are like yin and yang. One is wet; the other is dry. One city is teeming with security officers; the other feels like Paradise. One is at sea-level; the other is nearly 12,000 feet above that.

Flying into Cusco today, out the window as far as the horizon stretched were wrinkly, rugged, barren and arid mountains: The Andes. The city sits nestled in a vast valley which was basking today in brilliant sunlight under perfectly blue Peruvian skies. With a population of less than 350,000, it is 1/10 the size of Guayaquil. Upon exiting the airport, I was stunned by the cool and dry air after leaving Guayaquil's warm and humid climate. It felt like Washington State to me, so instantly Cusco scored points! This city is charming, romantic, classic, Old-World elegance and so close to Heaven it literally hurts! (Keep reading!)

Cusco, once the capital of the Inca Empire (1200-1532), is situated between two rivers near the Urabamba Valley, and legend says that it was planned and plotted out in the shape of a puma. (Leave it to those clever Incas!) After the Spanish Conquistadors invaded the valley in the 1500s, it became the hub of Spanish colonization and the hub of Roman Catholic missionary work in the Andean World.

Sitting in the very center completely dominating the core of Cusco is the breathtaking "Plaza de Armas" with its several enormous cathedrals - so overpoweringly massive and imposing that I could see it from the air miles away - and a wide assortment of museums, shops, restaurants, fountains and markets. As it turns out, my awesome travel agent booked me a beautiful hotel on the perimeter of the plaza. (Thank you, Kathy!) I've never seen anthing like outside of what I had seen in Rome years ago. Perhaps the terra cotta roof tiles also speak to that Italian vibe. It is now a major tourist destination with an estimated one million visitors each year...well, make that 1,000,001 now.

Now I had read ahead of time and was warned by my travel agent about the effects of altitude sickness. The pharmacy where I got my Yellow Fever shot ever suggested I get a vaccine against it- (HUH? How can you be vaccinated for a condition dependent on what altitude you're at?!) So considering myself a fairly "tough" individual, I scoffed at all the advice. But let me tell you, carrying my luggage up three flights of stairs after arriving at the hotel- I could instantly feel the shortness of breath, the pressure in the head, the strain on the leg muscles and the diminished oxygen level in the brain. I felt woozy and light-headed. Truly remarkable, I thought to myself, as I slowed my pace up those long stairs and began to breathe deeper to compensate. After all, at this elevation, one has an intensely greater amout of gravity pulling on one's body. It's much like being at the top of Mount Rainier.

I fought off a slight headache and a considerable amount of fatigue throughout the day- could have been partly due to exhaustion from the grueling trip here, but I believe The Man of Steel here, hard as it is to admit, did feel the effects of the Andean Kryptonite.

Off on my train ride up to Machu Picchu early in the morning with so many virtual passengers tagging along for the ride in my pocket with me. Funny thing is: with so many of you reading along, even though I am flying solo, I am not feeling alone.

Good News/Bad News

Good: It's my father's 86th birthday today. That is the best news of all today. Happy Birthday, Dad! What an extraordinary life you are living, and I hope you make it to your goal of 1oo years. You are and always will remain one of my biggest heroes.

Bad: I've been awake for 27 hours with only two very brief naps- both of which were interrupted. At the Hilton yesterday, I slipped into some heavenly 600-thread-count, damask sheets around which they meticulously wrapped up an exceptionally comfortable mattress and fell into a deep, sound sleep. But if you remember how totally upside-down everything was for me yesterday, you won't be surprised to learn that the phone (which just happened to be set on the highest ringer volume technically possible) rang- ONE TIME, just one ring. I swear I levitated 3 feet off the bed in the span of 2 seconds; it startled me that much! Of course, once I tore myself out of bed to see who was on the line, there was no one there. With my heart racing a thousand beats per second, I gave up on that nap. And today, feeling so exhausted from yet another delayed flight and missed connection- woo hoo!! - I finally collapsed in the airport in a quiet corner all alone. But, naturally, within 1o minutes, I was joined by a family with three young, irritable, screeching toddlers who sat directly behind my once-hidden oasis of solitude, the oldest of which thought it was hilariously fun to rock the row of seats we shared. So much for catching up on my sleep.

Good- Even a 10 minute power nap recharges me.

Bad- I look like I'm about 130 years old this morning as I sit in the Lima International Airport. I went into the restroom to wash my hands and looked in the mirror- the textbook picture of sheer exhaustion or "death warmed over" as my dear old (look who's talking!) mom would say. I doubt when I get home that many people will remark, "Wow, you look so well-rested!" like most people hear when they return from a 2 week vacation.

Good- I'm one third of the way through my trek into the Latin World, and despite quadrupling the number of wrinkles on my face and feeling like a Guinness Book of World Record "Oldest Man Alive" candidate, I feel healthy and happy. I haven't had a single digestive issue. I've been safe and sound and lucky so far. I am still alive! (That's good, right?)

Bad- It's cloudy and cool here in Lima this morning with just a hint of drizzle slowly misting the west coast of Peru, and I worry about my tour to Machu Picchu tomorrow.

GREAT NEWS: I just checked the weather forecast for The Lost City of the Incas tomorrow, and the forecast shows sunny skies, virtually no chance of precipitation and unlimited visibility. The nicest day this week! That is the kind of luck I'm used to.

Mr. Sandman, please turn on your magic beam. Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream!

Rolling With the (oh-so-many) Punches

I've found in my many trips around the world traveling to 3rd World countries (or even 2nd World countries like Ecuador), one must learn to just go with the flow and expect the highly unexpected. Today was no exception.

I awoke at 4:50 AM- 5 minutes before my alarm went off. Once again, my inner alarm clock was revved up and one step ahead of my battery-powered one. I'd arranged for a 5:00 wake up call and a taxi to arrive at the hotel to shuttle me to the airport at 5:30 for my flight to Lima at 7:55. As it's my nature, everything was laid out, luggage organized, tightly-packed and zipped up so that all I needed to do was hop in the shower, step into my neatly-folded clothes and hit the road. Checking in at the airport was effortless and smooth. The normally-long lines at the immigration station were sparse, and I arrived at my designated gate by 6:30. "Maybe this will be one of those rare days where things will go smoothly!", I thought to myself with a quiet, cautious sense of optimism. Little did I know it would not be the case.

At 7:20, over the loudspeaker came an announcement saying that there was a "technical difficulty" with the plane (never a good sign), that the flight would be delayed and more information would be come at 8:30. I stretched out on the airport floor, snoozed for a half hour with one ear on guard using my carry-on bag for a pillow and waited. Another heads-up at 8:40 saying the issue had not been resolved, more news to come at 9:20. Another quick nap, followed by a quick bite to eat and a petite cup of very strong Americano coffee. At 9:45, finally- the big bombshell proclamation: "Ladies and Gentlemen, we regret to inform you that Flight 1631 to Lima has been cancelled for today. The flight has been rescheduled for 2:45 AM tomorrow." Instantly, people were on their feet, irate and swarming the ticket agent's booth- at least 10 different languages could be heard and some of it (make that much of it) sounds like cursing to me. Stunned as everyone else is, I fell into the line that has formed and dozens of question marks circle crazily over my head. How does this effect my connecting flight from Lima early the next morning? What about the room I have already reserved tonight? How many dominoes will tip before this catastrophe is over?

Just as I'm standing in line ready to have my turn whining at the agent and extolling all of my woes and worries, a very typically-rude and disgruntled Frenchman decides he wants the spot in front of me and boorishly barges in line. Now since I was a kid in grade school, I've had to deal with people "cutting in line". I accept it as just part of life. It p*sses me off, of course, and often I will fight it. But today- I just let it go. What is one more spot in line really worth when I know I'm going to have to kill an entire day waiting? It simply wasn't worth it to me. Still, I secretly despised him for doing it. When I did speak to the now beleaguered and exhausted agent, he assured me that I would make my connection flight the next morning. (My first stay in Lima was only a very brief jump-off for my trip to Cusco and Machu Picchu, so losing 3/4 of a day there was not the end of my world.)

We were all herded into an empty room like obedient cattle and told that the airline would put us up in Hilton Hotel until 1:30 AM and then return us back to the airport for our flight. As it turns out, the person STILL in front of me as the group of stranded passengers were loading onto the big bus was "Monsieur" himself, the Parisian line hog. I noticed that the bus had filled up quickly and as I slowly inched up to the steps to board the bus, the Frenchman (dear God, could you really be this cruel?!) was the last one allowed to get on. Sacre bleu!! As if I were in a bad dream, the driver (who had been literally counting heads) thrust his arm across the thresh hold directly in front of me and said, "No more on this bus." I had no choice but to throw my head back and laugh out loud!! It just doesn't get any funnier than that at times!

The 2nd half of the herd -my half - was squeezed into two smaller vans and whisked off to the Hilton. Interestingly, when we arrived, I noticed the large bus was nowhere in sight. My group checked in, was given vouchers for lunch and dinner, and assigned private rooms that are luxurious, swanky and full of all the high-end amenities. The first and ONLY thing I could think about was taking a hot, soothing bath since I hadn't had a good soak in a tub in 5 days and generally take TWO per day in the old clawfoot back home. Gleefully, I flew into the bathroom and began drawing a bath but quickly realized that the drain stopper doesn't work properly. I try, and I try weeping quietly to myself and wondering what have I done to deserve this torturous day? Calling the front desk, there is no answer. Calling the operator, no answer. I check out every single one of the 20 buttons on the suddenly-not-so-upscale Hilton phone and see that there is an "Emergency" button with a white cross medical icon below it...tempting... but opt against that since that would have been just unethical, I thought. Finally, after 2 more rounds of aggravating, unanswered calls and my blood pressure slowly rising, I got through to someone via the "housekeeping" button and a maintenance man arrives - after 45 minutes of agony - and fixes the problem.

An hour later, I emerge- waterlogged, squeaky-clean and relaxed- and head downstairs to the restaurant to sample the outrageous, royal assortment of delectable buffet jewels featuring dozens of various meats and seafood, pasta, salads, traditional Ecuadorian dishes, desserts and various gourmet delights. Deciding a proper, much-needed, long nap would be in order, I headed back to the elevators toward the lobby and saw a long line of tired and familiar faces waiting at the front desk. I asked an Austrian woman I had spoken to in the airport who was part of this"big bus" group why they were still in line, and she reported that there was some kind of "technical" issue with the bus (it broke down on the way from the airport) and they sat for the longest time waiting to have it fixed. And (oh, sweet justice of the ages) can you guess who was standing in the second-to-last place in that line? Yes, it happened ironically to be Frenchie himself.

And before I leave later this evening - just because I can -I'm taking another bath.

Two Final Ecuadorian Tidbits

1. When I went to the Banco Pacifico on my first day here in Guayaquil to convert my American Express travelers checks into local currency, the teller counted out a handful of American dollars. I looked at her with a puzzled expression and asked if she'd understood that I actually wanted "Ecuadorian money", and she proceeded to tell me that Ecuador uses American currency as their official legal tender. What the hell!?! They do have their own system of "centavo coins" for small change, but all their bills are US. And it's 1:1, so there's no conversion issues here like in India where it's like 11,000 rupies = $1. Weird... but convenient for the US tourists! Still seems like kind of a rip-off. They can't make their own money, for goodness sake?

2. Myth buster: I've been so excited all this time to see if it's really true that toilets in the Southern Hemisphere flush counterclockwise as opposed to clockwise in the Northern Hemisphere. But damnit, it's not true. It's all a hoax perpetuated over time! Toilets only flush in the direction that the jets inside the bowl tell them to, and it has nothing to do with the contrasting rotation of the two hemisphere. I've tried several different flushing experiments in my spare time down here and found they flush in either direction. I'm so disappointed!
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Off to Lima, Peru tomorrow morning, very early, just for one night and then off to Cusco and Machu Picchu for 4 days and nights! Buenos noches, everyone.

Stairways to Heaven AND Hell

My third day in Guayaquil. I'm feeling at home here now and can find my way to virtually everything that's on my list of important sites in the city. Yesterday, I hit two major ones that all the tourist information deem as "must see" locations- the famous Mercado Artesanal (artistan market) and Las Penas, the oldest neighborhood in Guayaquil.

I set off for the market first since it is relatively close to my hotel - about a mile - and I had also been "jonesing" for some real arts and crafts, indigenous, "folksy" Ecuadorian handiwork which had seemed conspicuously missing from my trips around the core of this large, most-modern urban center. The market is the largest in Ecuador with over 270 shops and small booths that takes up an entire city block. Walking into the market would make anyone's head spin due to the incredible amount of artwork and handmade crafts. The intense concentration of items is mind-boggling! The market is a labyrinth of narrow walkways and tiny shops filled to the brim with carvings, paintings, woven goods, jewelry, pottery, clothing, trinkets and a tourist's paradise. It took me about three hours to get through it all, and I left with a bag full of treasure.

My next stop was Las Penas- the oldest and original residential neighborhood in Guayaquil dating back to the mid 1500s. It is built on a very steep hill and only accessible by foot, and I had read a great deal about the charming cobblestone stairway that one must climb, 500+ steps, in order to reach the top which guaranteed unobstructed views to the entire city as well as a small chapel in honor of Santa Ana and a spectacular lighthouse. So I set out for this unique climb. As I approached the famous hill, I saw thousands and thousands of dilapidated box-like homes built one atop the other, laundry hanging everywhere, filthy dogs roaming the dirty streets, garbage strewn everywhere; it reminded me of images I'd seen in Haiti. Scratching my head and reassuring myself that the literature I'd read said Las Penas was very old and picturesque, I continued on. Finding a large, very steep stairway ahead of me, I thought to myself, "This must be it!". But the decrepit stairway ahead of me was not very inviting with no tourists in sight and only a handful of dusty kids in tattered clothing kicking empty water bottles around, an ancient, blind man sitting scraping a razor over his grey stubble and a few scraggly cats panting in the heat. I grabbed my camera, snapped some pictures and tried to reconcile in my mind how these ramshackle, broken-down, deserted steps could be considered "charming" by any stretch of the imagination.

100 steps and still climbing, a young and beautiful girl about 14 years old suddenly appeared in a small window and started wagging her finger at me, shaking her head and saying, "Senor! No. No ir e ese camino." I smiled and told her I didn't speak Spanish- a phrase I say about 1,000 times each day- and she repeated it. I stood look puzzled because I could sense she was desperately trying to convey something terribly important to me. Was she saying I shouldn't take pictures of the local residents? She called to her mother to help translate. Mamacito appeared in her oil-stained housecoat and only had to say one word that instantly made the whole picture perfectly clear to me, "Criminale'!" The girl's urgency was trying to save my life! Apparently- duh!- this was the wrong staircase and was leading me directly into the absolute WORST and most crime-ridden section of the city! Whew- I thanked both of my guardian angels profusely and turned around.

I descended and rerouted myself and eventually found the correct pathway to the top. The correct stairway was all it was supposed to be- impeccably clean, quaint, each step meticulously numbered with its own plaque and lined with upscale shops and boutiques. At the top of the hill, 1,000 feet up, I found magnificent views, a much-needed cool breeze and vistas of the entire region. It was well-worth the ascent and a twist in my day that left me chuckling.

Didn't I just start by saying with great confidence that I could find my way around the city with no problems?!

Guayaquil

I'm very much fond of this city. Guayaquil is the largest city in Ecuador and founded in 1538 (although it existed already as a peasant village) by Spanish Conquistadors and named after St. James of Guayaquil. Currently, over 3.3 million people reside here, so it is a busy, vibrant and bustling metropolis.




Traffic is crazy here! The main streets are wide and full of cars, honking taxis, noisy motorcycles and absolutely NO sense of order. There are no lanes to stay in- one just weaves and squeezes into any open space available! Even though there are traffic lights, no one really pays much attention to them. On my 10 minute ride from the airport to my hotel, my taxi driver ran through about 100 red lights. (I was so increbily tired from 23 hour journey that I didn't really seem to care much!) Crossing the streets downtown requires concentration, a St. Christopher's medal and incredible timing!



One of the very first things I noticed on my first morning here is that Guayaquil is FULL of magnificent Spanish colonial architecture - massive, palacial structures and glorious cathedrals crawling with imbellishments and intricate details. I am finding myself wandering around in AWE at some of the buildings and trying to record all of this grandeur with my camera.

Another striking observation that came immediately was the this city is swarming with armed guards, so I feel extremely safe in Guayaquil. Every single street corner has at least one security officer (most of whom look rather bored), and there are three different uniforms present indicating to me that it must be a combination of federal, municipal and private security forces. Even the public restrooms are manned (and womaned) with their own guards. I'm making sure I don't litter just to so I won't be deported.

The people are friendly and helpful. Ecuadorians are very laid-back, gentle and kind. I've already had a number of people help me without solicitation after seeing me conspicuously studying my trusted city map. Several times, these generous souls have tried to give me directions in rapid-fire Spanish (much to my frustration because nothing they said made a bit of sense to me), but still I smile and say, "Muchos gracias, amigo!" and continue on. Fortunately, I've been blessed with good navigational skills and can generally find my own way around any unknown city. Thanks, Mom and Dad, for the inate GPS system!

I'm staying in THE most upscale part of Guayaquil on the famous "Malecon"- a 1.5 mile brick-lined boardwalk that stretches along the Guayas River and home to many of the city's major landmarks as well as many museums, restaurants, historic monuments, gardens full of tropical plants and palm trees full of multi-colored iguanas sunning themselves in the branches, statues, shops and fountains. Last night, at around 11 PM, I strolled down the Malecon feeling the cool evening breeze among the thousands of others out and about when suddenly a 200-man Ecuadorian naval band all dressed in their crisp white uniforms appeared, set up their instruments and began playing the most wonderful, lively, sensuous Latin music with a cadre of vocalists and instantly an enormous and appreciative crowd gathered singing along and dancing to the wonderful, enchanting and soul-stirring sounds. The spellbinding, moon-lit concert lasted over an hour, and I stayed for the entire time treating myself to a decadent, double scoop ice cream cone to celebrate this unexpected, magical experience. As the band finished its set, the leader came to the microphone and called out, "Viva, Guayaquil!" and the audience responded with an enthusiastic and heartfelt, "VIVA!! VIVA!! VIVA!!"

Indeed, long live the city of Guayaquil!

Saludos desde Guayaquil, Ecuador! Estoy finalmente aquí.

After a grueling 23 hour day, I am finally here in Guayaquil, Ecuador. If you read my entry from yesterday, you'll know that my flight was majorly delayed, and I didn't even get to my hotel until 2:30 AM and only had enough energy to take a much-relished hot shower and seriously collapsed into bed. The hotel in which I'm staying is a VERY old, elegant 4 story mansion right on the Guayas River- full of ornate, wrought-iron metal work, a grand staircase, arched doorways and intimate rooms full of character. They play smooth jazz that carries throughout the hotel, and the clientele is young and hip. I woke this morning to a sunny, warm (upper 70s and humid) day and stood out on my private balcony looking around at the architecture, palm trees lining the Malecon - the boulevard along the river - and dined on a delicious Ecuadorian breakfast of fresh fruits (watermelon, bananas, passion fruit, pineapple and mangos), granola, scrambled eggs and some kick-ass coffee. I'm off to take my first steps into the city and get myself oriented and do some shopping. It's still surreal to me to realize that I'm actually in South America and below the Equator for the first time in my life. It is finally sinking in. The long ordeal-of-a-trip is behind me now, and my tour begins! Adiós por ahora! Espero que todos están bien y gracias por acompañarme en esta asombrosa aventura!! note: for those of you who don't speak Spanish, myself included, go to: http://translation.babylon.com/english/to-spanish/

STUCK IN THE BIG ATL

First glitch: I’m sitting on the runway in Atlanta waiting for our plane to get repaired. It’s in the high 90s today, and outside the heat and humidity must be melting the paint right off the aircraft. Already we’ve been sitting here for an hour and a half with no end in sight. Just sitting on the tarmac. According to the pilot there was a small malfunction in the main control panel of the cockpit and maintenance appears in no hurry to get here and fix it. Go, Delta Airlines!! Trying to make us feel better and show how apologetic they are, they offered us a small cup of free water. Woo hoo! Great way to make an impression.

When I first boarded the plane, I discovered I had been lucky enough to have a window seat. The little kid still alive in me after 57 years is always delighted by a window seat when I fly, and on the leg from Seattle to Atlanta I had studied the flight map and noticed that our route would take us directly over the Gulf of Mexico. How fascinating (and yet sad) it was going to be to fly over the oil spill and see the historic natural disaster from the air firsthand. Soon, two rather large, younger, Spanish-speaking women squeezed themselves into the seats next to me, and suddenly my cozy relationship with my seat placement simply fizzled. I was instantly claustrophobic. Soon, however, good fortune appeared to smile upon me when the friendly flight attendant asked the two Latina Butterballs if they would mind moving forward in the cabin. Ahhh…two empty seats to my left and an unobstructed view all the way to Guayaquil! Life was good again!

Wrong! My sense of bliss lasted only temporarily when a very short woman with an enormous wig-like head of long, stringy, jet-black hair followed by her 10-year-old son (who was already whining) were reassigned to the two previously empty seats next to me. A heated five minute debate between the two of them ensued regarding who would sit in the middle seat. I prayed it would be whiny the kid hoping he would take up less space. Instead, she climbs awkwardly over the seats and flops down next to me.

She is a very nervous woman, praying to Santa Teresa and every 5 minutes she makes the sign of the cross in triplicates. At one point, she was leaning forward with her head on the seat in front of her weeping audibly. Her son is no better and also a little bag of nerves and whimpering inconsolably. I’m getting very close to leaning over and telling him to knock it off. To compound the situation (remember: we’re sitting in the bright sunlight in this Southern summer heat in a tube of metal), this woman has no sense of where her seat ends and mine begins. Her over-sized purse has made its way onto my half repeatedly. I can’t count the number of times she has elbowed me or bumped her knee up against mine. Half the time, she’s doing her airline version of the “gangster lean”. When she took off her left shoe, she bent so far to the right (toward me) that her entire head and all that hair on her head covered my lap, much to my embarrassment. Fortunately, she has accurately read my not –so-subtle body language and facial expressions and backed away each time.

My patience is running thin. My buns are aching. It’s been over 2 hours now, and still we sit. Where is my Irish luck!? I’m cranky, tired, and sitting next to an emotional, hyperactive, contortionist wreck who has virtually made it to first base with me already..and if my peripheral vision is as accurate as I think it is- I do believe she’s trying to read what I’m typing here. If that is the case: STAY ON YOUR OWN SIDE LADY!!!!!

Considering 100 or 200 years ago, this journey would be unbearably harrowing at times, full of danger and disease and surely would have taken weeks or even months, I shouldn't complain, but this is turning out to be one helluva flight! Wait...I think we're moving!!!....