Air travel in the twenty-first century has joined thumb screws and the rack as instruments of exquisite discomfort. Long lines, full body scans, luggage inspections, identity checks and a multitude of additional, minor indignities precede every departure. And full cabins, smaller seats, and travelers' increased use of carryon luggage-- to avoid baggage charges-- adds cramping and claustrophobia to the experience. I'll show you what I mean with an account of my trip to what shall be an unnamed island in the Caribbean.
I am blessed by living near Houston which has come to rival Miami as a gateway to Latin America. The recent merger of United and Continental airlines, despite inevitable growing pains, has enhanced Houston's south bound service. Now many travelers from Los Angeles visit the Caribbean via Houston. But given the fear and loathing that Latin America currently inspires in the US security community, anyone traveling to the region will likely endure special scrutiny. On this trip I passed three separate identity checks, at the airline counter, the TSA desk, and the gate. There was also a final, surprise check, conducted by a uniformed customs agent and a contraband-sniffing dog, in the tight space between the gate and the jetway. While the agent asked me a series of questions about my travel, his canine companion sniffed a little too close to my back pocket. Did they think I was carrying controlled substances OUT of the country? Both my ends passed inspection, apparently.
The plane, a 737, was completely full, of course, and I had drawn the middle seat. A note on personal anatomy: I am 6'2," all in the femurs, which makes sitting in a coach seat a feat of contortion in the best of circumstances, and these were not the best. To my right sat Lucio, a Brazilian history graduate student at UCLA. To my left was a 70-something, retired nurse, returning to her island birth place for the first time in 17 years. Lucio had somehow managed to come aboard with two very large carryons, one of which he positioned between his legs like a saddle. That bag, a backpack, actually, held his computer and research notes for a paper he was giving (turns out Lucio and I were headed for the same conference). The notes, the backpack and the computer were in perpetual motion as their owner put some finishing touches on his text. After discovering our mutual destination, Lucio explained the importance of his research on information transfer and paused briefly to ask what I do. "I work on information transfer, too; I'm a librarian," I offered. "Oh," he said. Librarians get that a lot.
The retired nurse, I never caught her name, turned out to be quite a talker. She was naturally excited about seeing her relatives after such a long separation, and she persistently released long streams of words that described memories of her youth and her long residence in the Eagle Rock suburb of Los Angeles. Her carryon, only one, was filled with food. How had the dog missed this? I was offered fruit and baked goods before I learned something else about my aisle seat mate. She was incontinent, and the fear of a discharge mandated hourly trips to the lavatory. I took advantage of her second departure to cut off our conversation with ear buds-- those things really send a message.
We reached our destination in five hours, twenty minutes, an almost manageable duration. Now I was on Caribbean soil, but not home free. Between me and sleep lay customs.
A 737, even one filled to capacity, holds no more than 150 souls. There were eight officers reviewing documents, and yet it took nearly 90 minutes for the last passenger to clear. That's over 12 minutes each. My experience was typical. The officer carefully reviewed the manifest I handed her, perusing the 8-digit passport number, the flight information and my "on business" selection as the reason for my visit. "What kind of business?" she wanted to know. Then we moved on to an item not on the form, an assurance that I would be leaving the island. The agent wanted a ticket but settled for a copy of my itinerary and copied the departure time, airline and flight number onto the margin of my declaration. One last item remained, my in-country contact. "I'm staying in a hotel, the Hilton," I offered up with a smile. But the form asked for a personal contact, and the agent seemed determined to have one. We were at an impasse, two English-speaking people, silently staring at each other through a pane of safety glass. Finally, she blinked, and with a grumbled "I'll just fill in Hilton," she stamped my passport and signaled me through to baggage claim.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Lima's western suburbs peer over steep cliffs that mark the division between terra firme and the Pacific Ocean. Miraflores, the most populous of a string of coastal settlements, that also includes Barranco, Magdalena and San Miguel, styles itself the go-to place for upscale eateries and night life. The pioneering Peruvian chef, Gaston Acurio, opened his first restaurant here. Miraflores was once the preferred residence for English expatriates. That community has now largely disappeared, its existence documented only by a few street names and the interdenominational Church of the Good Shepard at the boundary of Miraflores and San Isidro.
In 1975 my wife and I got a taste of ex-pat life at Pension Miramar on the Malecon Cisneros. The place was British to the core-- a pub with Guinness on tap and a dart board on the wall, manicured gardens with a parrot or two, and a no nonsense land lady who wasn't above throwing back a drink or a dart or two with her guests. Many of the other pensioners were regulars. I remember a Lancaster merchant, there for the annual cotton harvest and a group of civilian contractors teaching the Peruvian Navy how to use the advanced weapons it had purchased. Forty years on, I went in search of Pension Miramar and learned that it fell to the wrecking ball sometime in the mid 1990s when a plague of condominiums swept the Malecon. A gentrification has its upside, though, and in this case it is a reclaiming of public property in the neighborhood.
The twenty meters of land between the Malecon and the cliffs, once an illegal but unsanctioned waste dump inhabited by squatters, has been transformed into a ribbon of parks and running trails. One of these oases, christened Parque de los Amantes, is accessorized by a colossal statue of two figures entwined in an impossible embrace and, nearby, a red windsock. The statue inspires the lovers; the windsock marks a hang glider runway. For 150 soles, $55.72 by today's exchange, anyone with a desire to float with the thermals can do so-- irresistible, I thought, until I looked down.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" my pilot asked. My reply, something along the lines of "too old to crash, too young to die," drew nervous laughs from everyone in earshot. But I had come too far for anything approaching a dignified retreat. So over the cliff it was.
Full disclosure here. My parasail was the equivalent of a bicycle with training wheels. All I had to do was sit in a nylon sling and occasionally adjust my weight in response to the pilot's commands. The route traced a series of figure-eights, sailing out to sea and tacking back toward the cliffs. Negligible turbulence, nothing like my years of riding twenty-seaters in and out of Ithaca, New York, and the profound silence of flying at low speed without an engine are my clearest memories of the ten minute descent to the beach.
Now where is that Grand Canyon, again?