4:30CST: Peter picks me up in Bloomington, where I stayed the short night at my aunt’s house, to take me to the airport. I’m already wishing I had slept more than a quick nap.
05:00: Grouchy U.S. Airways check-in attendant barks that my luggage is overweight and invites me to retreat from the check-in counter and “figure it out.”
05:20: I successfully re-distribute weight so as to avoid an extra-extra overweight baggage cost. Returning to the counter to have my suitcases tagged, Ms. U.S. Airways hisses, “This bag is probably going to break open, and we won’t be responsible for it. You see this seam? This bag is overpacked. They’re both overpacked.” “They’ll tape it up, right, in case it would break open?” I ask. “Yeah, but you’ll probably lose some stuff. I worked baggage for 19 years,” she said, with a tone of “trust me, I know, you stupid-packer-young-traveler-know-it-all.” Meanwhile she goes out of her way to console the dressed-up, stressed-out, teary-eyed mother of two whose flight on another airline to visit grandma was just cancelled. Thanks for the reassurance, lady.
05:25: Same check-in attendant gets chipper with me for a moment when she realizes I may be related to a U.S. Airways pilot of the same last name. “No, not that I know of.” The smile disappears from her face pretty quickly and she sends me off with a dry “Have a nice trip, Ms. Quist.” I should have said I was related to the pilot who shares my last name.
05:45: I’m riding the moving sidewalks as other people stride past me. Just riding them, not walking—Now I’m one of those people whom Ellen DeGeneres makes fun of in her stand-up comedy show, “Here and Now.”
06:00: The sky awash with pink morphs into bright oranges and purples and reds, and the blazing sun emerges from behind some clouds. Now that’s a good way to start the day.
07:00: The smooth take-off feels different sitting in the front of the plane, as opposed to the middle or back where I usually find myself. I’m in the aisle seat of the first row behind first class. Lots of leg room! I stretch out, and I’m asleep.
08:30: I awake, stretch, and glance across the isle, where the very cute young blond boy smiles at me and tells me that my head was rolling around as I was sleeping. I chuckle and give him an instant replay of how silly I must have looked. He laughed again. I asked him what music he was listening to on his headphones. Confusion washes over his face. “How did you see me with headphones if you were sleeping the whole time?” he asks, bewildered. Magic, I said. The boy freely offers information about his destination when I ask him where he’s going, assisted here and there by mom, whose name I learn is Laurie. She went to CSB for a couple years before transferring to (I forget where) to study. Now she sells to Target. The 6-year-old boy, Logan, I learn, tells me he lives in the Twin Cities (Minneapolis?) on Venus Street—The kids at school ask him if he lives on another planet, he tells me, and we both laugh. We talk about Venus (the planet) for a little while, about its gasses and how we couldn’t live there. The conversation progresses to discussing moons, and we review the difference between the moons and planets, we talk about the sun… and pretty soon we’re marveling at the creation of the universe. “What did come before the planets and moons and stars?” Logan ponders aloud.
09:00: Logan’s younger sister, Avery, a beautiful two-year-old with frizzy golden locks, button-nose, and radiant smile, is showing interest in the new girl talking with her brother and mom. She slides off of Logan’s lap and begins to stand on the floor. I pull out my zucchini bread for some breakfast. “What’s that?” she asks. “It’s my grandma’s homemade zucchini bread for my breakfast.” “I want some,” and Avery holds out her hand. After checking with mom (Laurie, who went to CSB for a couple of years!), she’s rewarded with a fistful of bread, all of which she shoves into her mouth at once, showering the floor with crumbs. Logan asks politely, and the three of us chow down on bread.
09:30: Logan goes back to the window seat and starts telling me what he sees and asks me to come over and look. Pretty soon I’m seated with Avery on my lap and Logan standing before me, peering out the window. We marvel at the clouds (snow!, exclaims Avery) and mountains and waters. Avery and I pull out the phonics book and start identifying colors. And then it’s time for the descent, and I return to my seat. Avery is now sitting in the seat across the isle from me, and she wants to get out. “Where’s your smile, Avery?” I ask. She puts it back on, and then she’s fine with waiting the 10 or 15 minutes until we land.
10:30: The mountains are closing in on us on either side of the plane, and that’s enough to keep Avery and Logan looking from one side of the aircraft to the next. And then we’re on the ground and saying goodbye.
08:55 PST: Moving sidewalks once again transport me to my gate, where I am greeted by an energetic bilingual Mexican-American named Octavio. Soon he mixes up his regular announcements about passports to trivia: the first person to answer the question correctly wins a first class seat on the flight to Mexico City! Seriously! The passengers stir, excited at this opportunity. The first question goes without a correct answer (What are the two wonders of the world—one natural and one of human craftsmanship—that are in Mexico?). The second question is answered correctly by a man who consults google via WiFi to learn the Best Picture in 1970-something. He doesn’t keep it secret that he used the internet, and Octavio invites him to the counter to receive his first class seat.
09:15: Octavio pipes up again: “Okay, I’ll give you two more questions: one for the English speakers and one for the Spanish speakers. First, the English question: ‘Four U.S. states have capitol cities that start with the same letter as the state. What are they?” I get as far as Honolulu, Hawaii. “Y la pregunta para los hablantes de español: ‘Hay cuatro países en Sudamérica que no hablan español. ¿Cuáles son?” No problem, thanks to Señora Mansell’s insistence that we memorize the Latin American countries and capitols during high school Spanish courses! I quick jot them down on my piece of note paper and go to the podium. A man gets there before me and gets Brazil and the two Guyanas. He can’t get the last one. He is dismissed, and I state all four: Brazil, Guyana, French Guyana, y Suriname. “The gringa gets it!”, Octavio exclaims, and I exchange my coach boarding pass for my first ever first class seat! Woohoo! After a couple more minutes, a middle-age woman announces correctly the four capitols and states, and our seats our set. (For the record: Honolulu, HA, Oklahoma City, OK, Indianapolis, IN, and Dover, DE.) “To those who answered the questions correctly: Congratulations, you’re smarter than a fifth-grader.”
11:00: We take-off an hour late, after adding more than 5000lbs of fuel in case we’d have to re-route to a different airport because of Hurricane Dean weather. I settle into my large leather first class seat with plenty of room and enjoy my complimentary meal with cold Heineken beer as the movie plays. I can handle this first class travel. :)
16:00 CST: We’re descending into Mexico City, and as I’m marveling at the expanse of the city, the nice Mexican businessman with dual American citizenship, points out places of interest. I get an aerial tour of the largest city of the world! Perfect!
16:20: “¿Vas a Ciudad Juárez?” an airline attendant flags me down as I emerge into the densely crowded Aeropuerto Internacional Benito Juárez de México D.F. “Sí, sí,” I respond, and I am subsequently told to wait for further instructions about my connection. I quickly go on alert—“is this valid, or am I being played?” Somehow I start speaking with a Mexican-American man, born in southern Mexico and currently working as a special ed. teacher outside of San Diego. He laughed at me as I told him about my present in-limbo situation and chuckled at the irony of my wanting to go through Mexican Customs. Finally, after the plane is fully boarded, the attendant tells me that because of our delays in Phoenix, I’ll miss my connection to Juárez. He instructs me to a gate that seems miles away for re-booking ,which I accomplish without any problems, thankfully.
17:45: Nearly an hour after my original flight is in the air, I finally make it through the winding customs line, sandwiched between passengers from an Air France flight. Now off to find my checked luggage to pass through customs as well—I’m nearly positive someone at the airline or immigration told me to do this. I find it puzzling why I would need to be reunited with my luggage before my final destination, but Mexico City is my entry point to the country, so it makes sense to pass through customs here in the airport.
19:00: I have traversed nearly the entire airport searching for my bags, which are nowhere to be found. Nowhere to be found! With my flight to Juárez leaving in an hour, I can’t afford to spend any more time looking for my bags, at the risk of missing another flight. If worst comes to worst, I think, I’ll be returning to Mexico City in a couple days for the Fulbright Orientation, at which time I can figure things out. I move to the check-in counter to receive my boarding pass, and I ask the mostrador (check-in personnel) about my luggage. Within moments I am informed that my bags made my original connection flight and are waiting for me in Ciudad Juárez. Relief, frustration, irony all fold into a smile, and I walk to my gate.
19:30: After speaking with a man named George for a bit, I am finally aboard the Aeroméxico plane for the final leg of my journey.
20:00: Pati, a Ciudad Juárez resident and my seat companion, and I speak about Juárez, about work, about cell phone plans. She graciously offers to help me find a good cell phone plan with excellent domestic and international rates, and we exchange contact information. As our box lunch food arrives, conversation peters out, and I eat in silence and thoroughly the view outside the plane, as we fly parallel to a line of thunderstorms producing nearly constant lightening off in the distance.
21:30 MST: We land in Juárez, finding a landing strip in the middle of a sea of lights illuminating the expanse of Cd. Juárez and neighbor El Paso. George helps steer me through the airport through baggage claim, where once again, my bags don’t appear. He accompanies me to the Aeroméxico counter, where we inquire about my bags. After a couple of minutes waiting, an airline employee emerges with my big bags, and I am reunited with my luggage after nearly 18 hours of separation.
21:55: I call Ivone on some generous stranger’s cell phone, who says Cristina had gone to the airport back-and-forth in search of me, as had Ivone. I apologize for not getting a hold of either of them, she tells me not to worry, she’ll come for me right away. Pretty soon I’m one of two people left in the airport; even the women staffing the taxi tequilla (fare sales) have gone home.
22:20: A white, 1990s car pulls up, and Ivone calls out “Carliene” as both a question and exclamation. We greet one another with a hug, and she helps me to load my bags into the trunk and the back seat. We drive into the city along the Pan Americana, which begins in Juárez and runs through Central and South America to the southern tip of the continent.
22:35: While driving, we talk about the fiasco of my travels, the adventures, the lovely people whom I’ve meet and who have helped me a great deal. She informs me that she has been invited to a party and that I can come, too. Sure, why not, I tell her. But the house where the woman lives (lived) is dark. So we go to el Restaurante Deg’a, one of Ivone’s favorites. I get a light chicken soup, which is delicious, and we talk about history-she’s a member of the Juárez historians group-and of MN, and of traveling.
23:20: And we’re home. We dump my suitcases in my room, I get some water, and move to the telephone to call home. No answer; it’s well after midnight at home on a Saturday night (Sunday morning), late. I leave a message on Mom’s cell phone, and I decide to call Peter to let him know I got in safely.. He answers sleepily, woken up by the stranger number appearing on his cell phone screen. It is so good to hear a familiar voice!
24:00: Ivone is asleep, and the house is quiet. I think I put on some pajamas, but I don’t really remember. I pull out my alarm clock but don’t turn on the alarm for tomorrow. I have arrived safely with all of my belongings, I have eaten, I am at home. Soon I am asleep, finally able and willing to relax and permit exhaustion to take over.
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