The Flight Delays and Fiji, or Trying to Get to New Zealand (Jan 28th-31st)

I climbed off the shuttle to LAX and walked to the Air Pacific counter, only to find the line abuzz with news of a cancelled flight. Everyone in line received a typed apology and vouchers for one night's stay, breakfast, and dinner at the LAX Hilton, along with the assurance that our flight would leave at 9am the next morning. I took it in stride, seeing as how I didn't exactly mind a night at the Hilton and I figured a 12-hour delay made little difference.

Once at the hotel, I ate dinner with a philanthropic consultant in the same situation, who informed me that the flight had been delayed another 8 hours, according to someone at the front desk. I went to the desk to ask why we all hadn't been informed, and they said that was the airline's responsibility. Stellar customer service all around.

I fell asleep early, woke up in time for breakfast and a late check-out, and spent the early afternoon on the computer in the hotel lobby. Imagine my disappointment in discovering that, despite the availability of free wifi in just about every $8-a-night hostel in South America, the Hilton charges for wifi within their rooms. On top of that, I had to print out a boarding pass for my next flight and had to pay to use the business center in order to do so. Ridiculous.

At the airport I discovered that I wouldn't arrive for my layover in Fiji until 1am and that I wouldn't know anything about my connecting flight until my arrival there. Once on the plane, the fun continued, as my movie monitor malfunctioned and the person in the seat next to mine spilled orange juice all over me.

Upon our arrival in Fiji, those of us proceeding on to other destinations were herded onto buses to spend the night-- or six hours of it-- in a dinky motel 20 minutes away before returning for our connecting flights the following morning.



It wasn't exactly the Hilton this time.


In fact, they didn't even have bottled water available when we first arrived, even though Fijian tap water isn't potable. When I asked the barman when the porter who had been sent to fetch water would return, he simply shrugged and said, "Island time."

The next morning, our bus ran late in leaving the motel, as the motel staff had told half of the passengers the incorrect time for the morning pickup. As I viewed the rain-soaked Fijian landscape passing by in the windows, I thought how lucky I was not to have planned an extended stopover there during such torrential storms.

The flight to Auckland was blessedly uneventful, and by midday, I had made the bus journey to my hostel in the city center. I had passed over the international dateline during my first flight and skipped over a whole day, so it was by now January 31st. Jet-lagged, exhausted, and not exactly tempted to exploration by the drab weather outside, I picked up some groceries and cheap sushi from across the way, grabbed a bunch of flyers from the hostel information desk, burrowed into my bed, and began planning my next 5 weeks in the country.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:Los Angeles, Nadi (Fiji), and Auckland (New Zealand)

LA, USA (Jan 23rd-28th)

I knew when I awoke that my day would be a long one: 3 flights, 2 layovers. I slept through most of the bus ride to the Salvador airport, as well as the flight to Rio. Then I had ten hours to kill with no free internet, so I spent the entire time working on my blog and reading. Thank heavens for the page-turning goodness of the "Game of Thrones" sequels.

In Miami, I had to get my backpack and recheck it in order to go through customs. When the female half of the Jersey couple I'd been chatting with saw how small it was, she nearly fainted. "Turn away!" she said, as her own set of large suitcases came off the conveyor belt. "I'm embarrassed! I only traveled for 2 weeks!" I laughed, and we said our goodbyes. I spent my 5-hour layover stretching and lying on the floor with my feet on a chair to counteract the effects of prolonged sitting and compression. Sure, I got some funny looks, but I had long since gotten over being stared at for my anti-DVT measures.

My flight to LA was largely uneventful, but it did solidify my belief in the need for pacifiers on airplanes. See, pacifiers used to be de rigueur, but they've fallen out of fashion. Fine. Who am I to contradict the latest childcare studies? But when the kid is under two years old and on a plane, give them a damn pacifier or something else to chew on. For one thing, no one on the plane wants to hear your kid scream and wail all through the flight, particularly on a red-eye. And more importantly, the poor child's ears are popping, and the scream results from the pain and from not understanding WHY they feel it. So give the poor kid some relief, for crying out loud!

But I digress. When I got into LAX, I picked up my rental car and headed for the Burbank airport, where my mom's flight would touch down in a few hours. I used the meantime to run a few errands and reveled in the ready availability of my favorite brands of toiletries. When the time came, I had to circle the airport six times before I finally saw my mom's fiery red hair and Cheshire cat grin.

After a curbside reunion of long hugs, we heeded the requests of the airport guard to move along and headed out to the nearby Outback Steakhouse, as few other options presented themselves and we were both ravenous. After catching up over a lunch that reacquainted me with the ridiculous size of American portions, I drove us to our hotel in Marina del Rey.


We spent the evening chatting, laughing, and going through the trip supplies I had set aside before I had left for South America for her to bring to me in LA. (I know. I'm ridiculously anal retentive and over-prepared. Big ol' type A personality.) Mom fell asleep before midnight, but, despite my own exhaustion, I couldn't settle down. I stayed up late into the night rearranging my things, setting aside clothes and supplies from my pack for my mom to take back with her, and picking what I would take from what she had brought me.

The next day, I slept quite late and only roused myself for the lunch I had arranged with my childhood best friend, Rhea, who now lives in LA.


After a lovely meal, during which my mom flirted hysterically with the waiter, the three of us piled into my rental car, and we headed to Hollywood to see the sights. LA's infamous traffic delayed us for nearly an hour, and when we finally reached Hollywood Boulevard, I grumbled unhappily to find that everything looked rather small and unimpressive in real life. Mom, however, couldn't resist getting a picture with one of the many costumed street performers-- I use the term performer loosely here-- since her beloved pseudo-grandchild Cole loves Spiderman so much.


My disappointment in our sight-seeing venture ended abruptly when we arrived for an exquisitely kaleidoscopic sunset at Griffith Observatory. One of the staff astronomers on hand said it ranked as the most beautiful he'd seen in his 23 years working there.


We took in a showing of the excellent and educational "Centered on the Universe" projection program in the planetarium and headed to the observatory deck to view the city by night.


Rhea and I viewed Jupiter through one of the massive telescopes, and then the three of us headed back into the city for a scrumptious meal at diner Fred 62....


... where our waiter sported my favorite message T-shirt of all time.


My mom and I spent the next two days mostly just enjoying each other's company and hanging out. We swam in the hotel pool, got pedicures and a haircut for me, had dinner with a friend from home--the lovely and bitingly funny Erin Drew-- one night and with two of my friends from my company's LA office another. On our last morning, I rented a bike from the hotel and rode up the beach to Santa Monica.


Around noon, I took my mom back to Burbank where we said a tearful goodbye. I then spent the day running errands and buying more sundresses, which I had found to be the most practical articles of clothing for my trip. I returned my car rental and hopped the shuttle to LAX. If only getting on the plane had proven simpler.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:Los Angeles, California, USA

Reflections on South America

NOTE: This ranks as the most diary-like entry of my blog so far, so be warned: it's long, it's ponderous, and there aren't many pictures. Okay. You've been warned. Proceed, if you dare.

Strangely enough, I have gotten so very behind on writing this blog, that I write this not as I leave South America or catch up in Los Angeles, as I had originally intended, but as I leave New Zealand, on the other side of the world. I believe, however, that the time that has passed, has only deepened my understanding and appreciation of my time in South America, and so perhaps it was meant to be this way.

It's funny what stands out to me most now. My awe at Machu Picchu and Iguazu Falls, of course... the tangy taste of my first ceviche and the succulent flavor of the finest steak I have ever had... the indignation at realizing I had been scammed for the first, but certainly not the last, time... the relief of discovering that I could get first-rate health care in Peru and at a shockingly lower price than in the U.S... the thrill of becoming unexpectedly smitten while on the road... all of these things loom large in my memory.

But the little things stand out just as prominently. Silly, tiny instances stick in my mind, like trying to repair my accidentally-decapitated good-luck buddha with Bolivian superglue and burning my hands and staining my jeans instead. And frustrations like finally starting to remember to throw the toilet paper into the waste basket instead of the bowl, just in time to leave the continent. Or simple observances like the extraordinary ubiquity of stray dogs in Peru and Bolivia. Seriously, they are everywhere in those countries! They wander into restaurants and check for dropped food; they hang out on futbol fields even as games are being played.


And they just loaf and lay around the streets. Perros! Perros everywhere!


Then I think also of what I missed, what I didn't get to do, what I'd never even heard of before arriving in South America and now ache to see! I already have an idea of how I would like to tackle SA on my second trip: visiting my friends in Buenos Aires and northern Argentina, working my way to the wine country of Mendoza and down into Patagonia, crossing into Chile, heading up through Santiago and Valparaiso, all the way to San Pedro de Atacama, then into Peru again to see Ica, Nazca, Lima (again), Iquitos, and Mancora, boating over to Ecuador and flying out to the Galapagos, and finally ending in Colombia, which apparently is most travelers' favorite SA destination, despite what we Americans have heard.

But despite the seeming specificity of those plans for 'Lin en America del Sur, Parte Dos', my primary goal would be to simply follow events as they unfold and do what seems right at the time. Because that lesson was the greatest and most hard-won of my time below the equator. Were I to do it all again, I would have only bought the ticket to Lima and let everything else come as it would, planning only a few days in advance at every turn. I spent quite a bit of money rearranging the plans I had made for the end of my South American sojourn so that I could follow my gut and stay certain places longer and go to others I had never intended to visit. It was money well spent, but had I not made those plans in the first place, it's money that could have kept me traveling longer. Sure, it's risky, just letting the adventure unfold as it happens, but I would rather take the chance and live to regret it. And I have rarely regretted it. Because even the harsh experiences prove enlightening in unexpected ways.

Other lessons were smaller, but no less valuable. For instance, there is no such thing as too much sunblock. Or too big a hat. Not when you're a redhead. Also, I've learned to have more confidence in my appearance without makeup. Much to my surprise, men on the travel trail sometimes still find me attractive! Even with my practically colorless eyebrows and lashes! And far more importantly, I've begun to see myself that way as well. I've also apparently been misspelling the words 'traveling' and 'traveler' for years. There's only one 'l' in each. Who knew? I've also developed a rather passionate belief that people who litter in the beautiful places to which they have traveled (one 'l') deserve to be culled from the human race. Oh, and I can tan! Barely, and completely imperceptibly when viewed beside Brazilians and Argentinians, but noticeably to those who saw me in LA. Finally-- not really, but it's the last point that jumps to mind, at the moment-- I learned that I prefer to stay in the moment and enjoy it rather than take a picture, even though the memory may not last. Is it worth it? I think so. And I still end up with plenty of photos anyway.

Not to say that each and every part of my trip either uplifted or educated me. Some aspects just plain wore on my nerves. I desperately missed doing my own laundry, rather than handing it over to a stranger to receive it back smelling only mildly fresh. I missed the availability of potable tap water and the consequent freedom from the guilt involved in throwing away who knows how many plastic bottles. I missed the guarantee of a hot shower, although I must say that I have remained quite lucky in that regard.

And I didn't only notice what I lacked but what I had had far too much of: bread and jam for breakfast, for example. And although, one day, I am sure I will hear "Ai se eu te pego" and "Danza kuduro" and be taken back to the many, many times on my trip when one of these two songs played in the background, at the moment I feel I would be happy never to hear either one ever again. I also must admit that I did become a bit bored with having the same conversation over and over again across the tables at hostels. Largely, I credit hostels with being my social salvation and the best possible places to stay on the travel trail. I can't imagine having forgone them for the unfriendliness of hotels. But after a time, anyone will become frustrated with telling people where they're from, where they've been, where they're going, and what they do. Fortunately, finding a travel buddy exempts one from this to an extent, at least.

I also grew tired of the coy hostel-goer age game. Someone would dance around the topic and eventually one or the other of us would ask, "So how old are you?" This might be considered rude in most circles, but in hostels, where most people get to know each other from scratch anyway and in which the age range can be quite broad, the question comes up constantly. Without fail, if I were the one to ask, regardless of having given my age already or not, the other person would reply, "How old do you think I am?" And therein lay the danger. Fortunately, I excelled at this and rarely missed by much, but if my aim was off and the person took umbrage with my answer, I told them they shouldn't have made me guess if they didn't want to risk an answer they wouldn't like. For my part, I refused to play this little game and astounded many a questioner with my open willingness to confess to being 31. But once again, fortune smiled because few people believed me anyway. The response typically sounded something like, "No way! You do NOT look 31. I would have thought 26. (This number varied from 23 [yeah, right] to 29)." No one in the U.S. seems to think I look particularly young for my age, but I have basked happily in the surprise of my fellow travelers at discovering my approaching decrepitude. So of course, I didn't get sick of that part of the age game. ;)

I also, quite vainly, never tired of the standard responses to my name, which means "lovely" in both Spanish and Portugese. "Si, Linda. Tu eres linda. (Yes, Linda. You are pretty.)" Or "Yes, you are, but what's your name?" Cheesy? Yes. Fake? Almost certainly. But I'm not above saying that it made me smile every one of the ten dozen times it happened during my time in Peru, Bolivia and Argentina.

Unfortunately, this backfired in Brazil. Allow me to explain why: I consider myself a very friendly person, and I know I am far more touchy-feely than most North Americans, but Brazilian men-- not as a rule, but in general-- are a bit too handsy for my tastes. Peruvian and Argentinian men make catcalls, obviously, and Argentinian men are downright comical about it. (Working, for instance, would seem no reason to miss a good opportunity to proffer a pick-up line. I had porteno bus drivers shout at me while driving, waiters ask their tables to excuse them while they whistled, and my baggage inspector at the airport say, "Oh my God" and look at me rather than my bag during the whole search.) But they keep their hands to themselves. In Brazil, however, touching remains a large part of the culture, and some men take this too far for my comfort, going in to kiss you or running their hands down your body after only a two-minute acquaintance. Still others push the generally wonderful personable nature of the Brazilian lifestyle past limits accepted even within their own communities, reaching out to stroke women's hair as they walk past and cooing, "liiiiiinda", which is just downright confusing when your name actually IS Linda! Unsurprisingly, I had had quite enough of that by the time I left.

Far more surprising, indeed, is the fact that I didn't get sick of my clothes. I have one 46-litre backpack and one messenger bag. That's it. As you might imagine, this allows for a rather small wardrobe. But I truly didn't become sick of much of any of it. On the contrary, I found that I had brought rather too much. When I met with my mom in LA, I gave her numerous items to take back with her that I no longer required. Granted, I also acquired a few new sundresses, but not because of being tired of what I had, but rather of realizing what best suited my needs and needing more of them.

I am infinitely grateful to the travel guides that advise to pack less, not more. How right they are! Many of my fellow travelers have looked wonderingly and enviously at my little bag and lamented the jammed state of their own massive packs. Others, like James, who manage with even less, boast of the ease and convenience of bearing so little weight.

That being said, certain items I brought, which others viewed with skepticism, have proven invaluable on the road, or at least well worth having. My travel pillow ranks first and foremost. It is soft and firm and inflatable, and I have counted myself lucky to have it on many an occasion: in airports, on buses, in the huts on the Kepler Track, and in many a hostel with subpar pillows of their own, to say nothing of those weeks when I needed the extra pillow to elevate my legs while I recovered from my hospital stay in Cuzco.

My giant first aid pack sits right up there as well. I have been teased quite a bit for the amount of meds and supplies I brought, but knowing my own tendency toward illness, I chose to be safe rather than sorry. And although I have blessedly remained healthy for the majority of my trip-- barring that notable bout of DVT in Peru, of course-- I have made use of much of it, as has every single one of my travel buddies. I buffed, bettered, and bandaged James's feet, gave Franca (NZ) ginger candies for her motion sickness, gave Ben a compazine for his, and provided cold sore patches to a friend in need, among many other instances. I have been able to serve as a walking dispensary and have been glad to do so, teasing notwithstanding. As Franca said, "That's Lin, always prepared." Damn straight. And even with all that, I've still had to buy medication at times!

My Ipad has proved likewise invaluable, allowing me to backup all of my photos on its storage space and the internet, to video-Skype with my family and friends privately and easily, to read books along the way without the added weight, to watch rental movies from Itunes when I needed a break, to access all of my contacts and information from home easily, and to write and format this blog. On top of which, here in New Zealand, my Ipad has served as my GPS, saving me hundreds of dollars in fees and getting me back on track numerous times. And this with Wi-fi only! Could I have done all of this on a small, cheap laptop? Possibly, excepting the GPS capability. Could I have gone days without charging said laptop, or inserted pictures so easily into my blog, or interfaced so smoothly between programs? Absolutely not. Once you go Mac, you never go back.

On the other hand, there are items I brought against advice, which may have been a bit over-indulgent, like my travel yoga mat and my one pair of heels. The former remains the biggest hinderance and weight of all my belongings, but I can't help but feel that it motivates me to practice when I might not otherwise do so, and it has come in handy as a back pillow, a camping cushion, and even a blanket on one particularly cold bus ride, so I kept it with me, even when I had the opportunity to send it back with my mom. My heels, however, I do not regret in the slightest. I was very happy to have them for nights out in Lima, Cuzco, Buenos Aires, and Rio; I can't dance in flip-flops, and every now and then a girl just wants to feel like a girl. Particularly after she's been sweaty and mud-caked and wearing travel pants and a pony tail for a week in some canyon or on a trail somewhere.

Speaking of which, despite my earlier tirade concerning being felt up a few times too many by some Brazilian men, I must say that I felt very safe for the majority of my time in South America. Part of this comes from the fact that I had male travel buddies a fair amount of the time, but I also made sure to be aware of my surroundings and myself, to stick to secure areas, to respect the traditions of the places to which I travelled, to avoid waving my camera, money, or phone about, and to blend in as much as possible or at least appear as a hardened traveler. This might sound pretty straightforward, but you'd be shocked at how often women neglect these basic principles. And even I was confronted with unpleasant situations occasionally and the consequent attitude of, "Well, you're kind of asking for that, traveling alone as a woman." And I'm not saying that I would advise every girl to go to SA on her own right out of high school or college, before they've had a chance to develop some street smarts. But I loved my time there so much and was able to avoid the dangers so wholly, that I can confidently encourage my mature friends to travel there despite its unsafe reputation.

Strike that. I don't merely feel confident. I feel eager. Inspired. Exultant! Go! Visit South America! Marvel at the ruins of Peru. Savor the cuisine of Argentina. Languor on the beaches of Brazil. Mingle with people's whose lives differ so greatly from your own and others whose differ very little but who share a desire to see the world. Don't remain among the 85% of U.S. citizens who don't have an active passport. The world is wide and waiting, and you need far less money than you think to explore it. Go. Go. Go!

Okay, before I get any more Dr. Seuss, I must wrap up. I have practically written a novel with these blogs, and for my money, this looks like the longest one yet. I will leave you with a quick trip tally:

Countries traveled to: Peru, Bolivia, Argentina, Brazil
Books read: Howard's End, Away, Game of Thrones, the Hunger Games Trilogy, South America on a Shoestring
Things lost: camera coozie, phone, hat, bathing suit, water bottle, NZ book, eye mask, and who knows how many other items
Friends met: too many to name, but particular love to James, Janni, Kasia, Rachel, Ryan, Julie, Francisco, Santi, Ana, Maria, Ben, Pato, Flor, Laura, Vanni, Emmanuel, Damian, and Alejandro (I know I'm leaving someone out, so please forgive me!)
Money spent: much more than I had intended, but some of that was medical bills!
Heights ascended (and descended): 3960 feet down, then up (Colca Canyon)
Sites seen: Read the blog if you want to know that!
Blog entries written: 52 Wow! If you've actually read all these, you are seriously dedicated!

Random political footnote:
Whatever your political stance or your opinion of Obama, I can assure you of one indisputable fact: the world thinks far better of us with him at the helm. I have not met a single non-American with a single positive thing to say about our last president and their thoughts on Obama, while not universally positive, do at least seem to run along a similar path to my own: that he is sometimes getting his ass kicked, but at least he is making a concerted effort, particularly as far as foreign affairs are concerned. Oh, and that he is essentially the sole serious figure in the farce our government has become, in which the players seem to have no goal except to subvert the efforts of those around them, with little or no regard for the people they supposedly serve. I can't really argue with that.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:Christchurch Airport, New Zealand