For the first time in eight years of travel, I managed to stay up the entire night before leaving. I plugged two Vivaran, which coincidentally I believe I bought for my first trip in 1997.  I managed to get the laundry done and then the normal pre-trip chores, but the pills left me feeling odd and strung out for hours afterwards.  By the time I packed I felt a little better, but I really only had 45 minutes to spare after I’d showered, when the taxi arrived a 4:15am.

The reason for this trip was a long and confusing thought process. I recognized I hadn’t traveled in ’05, and stood in danger of making no annual addition to my tales.  For that reason alone I knew I had to plan something, but nothing really was forthcoming. There was a general plan to return to Thailand to see Lauren in the spring of ’06, but things between Lauren and I hit the ever predictable six month apathy point right on schedule.  So I felt open and free to go anywhere.

Long before this time Scott had developed a friendship with someone from Argentina, and I spontaneously volunteered to accompany him on a trip to facilitate introductions. Being an old hand at such activities by now, the trip sounded like something different for me and a good opportunity to support Scott. After initially laughing off the offer, Scott got serious and we pinpointed a time.

Upon further reflection, I realized nothing in Argentina would grab me, and my past encounters with Argentine nationals had been less than impressive.   Further, Scott only planned a week in Argentina where as I had two full weeks to kill.  So after a bit of reflection,Brazil seemed to be a much better answer, with a side trip to Buenos Aries to meet up with Scott.

I fooled around doing research on destinations and delayed buying a ticket as fuel prices continued to climb.  I discovered that Brazil required Americans to get a tourist visa in advance, in retaliation for Americans requiring the same of Brazilians. 

Fair enough, I thought.

Then I discovered that a visa could only be obtained for $100, the same charge a Brazilian would have pay.  OK, I thought, no problem. 

Then I found out that a visa could only be obtained  from the San Francisco consulate, and further, no passports were accepted by mail, they had to be hand delivered and retrieved from San Francisco.  That means I would have to pay to have someone forward my passport and application and then pay to have someone pick it up and return it to me, in addition to the visa fee.  All of the sudden I was looking at $200 or $250 for the visa.  In the meantime, fuel prices had skyrocketed and the side trip to B.A. was now looking to cost as much as the entire flight to Rio. I decided to hell with the Brazilian government.  I called Scott, cashed in my chips with my apologies and rethought the whole thing.

I chose Peru, thinking it would be cheap and exotic enough, and should fares change, there would be a possibility I could join Scott in B.A. after all.  So Peru it was.  The departure flight on Continental was at the ball busting hour of 6am.

The Ukrainian taxi driver was around 19 feet tall and took a rather scenic route to the airport. I had plenty of time and elected not to complain.  Damage was $55 with tip.  I wondered about Janet going to the airport by taxi and if she was taken advantage of when she left for the airport.

Janet was my very good and very brave friend from Korea, who came to visit on her own a couple of times.  On one trip, I couldn’t get her to the airport on her return home, and felt terribly guilty about it.

Checking in at Continental Airlines was electronic and first time I’d done it completely by myself.  I passed on the first class upgrade offered me and I later realized it might have been free due to my new “Silver” status with Northwest.  I should have at least found out how much the upgrade would cost.

Getting through the shoeless security check was comparatively painless, but I was frightfully early for the flight, plus the plane was going to be delayed about 40 minutes for “crew rest”.  I wandered the concourse for a time, bought an Oregonian and waited for what seemed to be forever. I fought the ten ton pull of sleep as time moved at a snail’s stroll, and the lingering effect of the drug added to my gray malaise. When the boarding call did come, I took the preferred customers route based on my new “Silver” status and got my window seat.  I slept uncomfortably over the takeoff and through about half the flight to Houston.

Every time I dream of ways to make the hours of torture in the plane evaporate.  By far, the most successful was my trip to France, where I swallowed a Vicodin along with two airplane bottles of red vinegar the airline called cabernet.  Since a regular supply of Vicodin is not in the cards, I thought sleep deprivation the most sensible alternative.  By the time I actually did nod off, I was clearly beginning to hallucinate in the airport.

I woke cramped in my seat to stunning snow capped peaks, gorged canyons and later, the round fields I first saw on the back of Led Zeppelins Coda album.  I realized I hadn’t rated the Continental flight attendants and just as quickly realized I was better off not evaluating them.

Houston was the hub of my chosen airline and it was my first visit there. George Bush Intercontinental (get it?) Airport was surprisingly comfortable, neat and modern.  Only slightly more cowboy hats were on display than one might see in Portland, thankfully. I fooled around as I still had quite a layover, eventually landing in a brew pub that was neither particularly good nor particularly interesting.  Damage for 1 BCB, 2 beers, mozzarella sticks was $37, with tip.  Ouch.

I wonder one day if I will look back at these minor points of accounting and puke over myself. Outrageous taxi trips and top dollar lunches already feels like I let precious resources slip through my fingers.

The plane toLima loaded slowly. Once again I was up front, but got on last.  Of course, there was no overhead space at that point, and the rows of seats seemed incredibly close together.  I wedged myself and swallowed two of the Vicodans and a third later.  Although I did not sleep, the whole flight had a warm and fuzzy hue.  “Elf” and a computer animated film played, to my complete non-interest. My eyes were pleasantly shut, but I didn’t reach the storied level six of Zombification that I was hoping for.  The comparatively short air trip was much more sufferable than past Asian jaunts.

It was long after dark when I arrived in Lima.  My first clue things were slightly different than what I was used to was that the guy directing the plane to the gate did not have his flashlights on to illuminate the orange filters, and was therefore pretty damned hard to see in the dark. I lined up in the slightly chaotic immigration area.  A huge crowd arrived behind me and for once I was quite glad to have beaten them there, no doubt due to sitting towards the front of the plane. Ahead of me in line was some kind of Bolivian troupe, all in matching track suits with “BOLIVIA” printed on the back.  There were about thirty of them, mixed men and women, and some carried colorful feathered headdresses.  I guessed they were a dance troupe or a cultural exchange of some sort.  None of them were more than five feet six and many, both female and male, appeared to be stretching the definition of five feet to the very breaking point.

It’s quite doubtful that my mother would approve of much of my travel activities, but I can’t help but think she’d be proud to see her son as a giant among men. Well, maybe not quite the same way as she would have hoped, but those Bolivians were tiny people.  It reminded me of a time when I had drinks after work with an associate, and no sooner had we seated ourselves in the bar when we discovered there was a midget’s convention going on at the hotel.