I am obsessed with the Northwest, especially Oregon. I love the geography, I love the culture; the coffee, the beer, the music, the pinot, and the people, among other things. I was nostalgic the moment the plane left PDX.
I have had numerous unpleasant flying experiences but this was the itinerary from hell. My original flight was canceled due to hurricane and the new schedule the airlines so kindly booked was infinitely worse. I flew from PDX to Denver where I had a 6 hour layover, Denver to New Orleans with a 10 hour layover through the night, New Orleans to Houston, and finally Houston to San Pedro Sula, at which point I would take a 4 hour bus ride to San Marcos.
Life was tolerable through Denver where I randomly met Lenny in the airport and we drank New Belgium Mother Ship Wit until his flight. It was not until I arrived in New Orleans that I really began to resent Alaska, United, American, and Continental Air. The Plane landed at 8:30 pm and the airport was deserted. I was starving but there was not so much as an open vending machine to be seen.
Given the fact that I was a poor ex-student about to receive a wage of $300 per month, I opted not to spring for the hotel. Typically I don't have a problem sleeping in the airport. The Louis Armstrong international airport, however, resembles Antarctica. I was so ridiculously cold that I could not sleep, and so tired that I had to. So I went outside to sleep in the warm, sticky Louisiana air.
Waking up on a concrete bench in New Orleans officially ranks among my most miserable airport experiences. And I'm not sure if working at the airport makes people behave rudely (surely it must) or if it is actually a prerequisite for working at the airport, but I can't remember a time when I encountered a more unpleasant collection of people. After sleeping sparsely outside, I reentered the airport at about 4:30 am to check in for my flight and proceeded through security. The computer "randomly" selected me for additional screening. Can't you just leave me alone so I can go curl up in a ball somewhere and sleep for the two remaining hours I have until take off!? Sure, she claims this to be a random selection, but I am fairly certain that it was because A) I looked very much like dirty hippie, or B) because my grandpa was on a terrorist watch list most likely because he used to bury his Victornox knife in the plants at the airport before boarding the plane, and would dig it up upon returning. Only suspicious as of late. They took my toothpaste. Who, exactly, decided that confiscating the end of a tube of toothpaste, so I am unable to brush the fowl taste of MSY international out of my mouth, should constitute homeland security?
I was in REM sleep before the plane left the ground. I couldn't even be bothered by the incessant kicking of the child behind me. I awoke two hours later at 11:00 am, the estimated time of arrival at San Pedro Sula. I looked out the window to see the airport and hastily completed the customs forms we received upon boarding. I sat on the plane mentally preparing myself to haul 90 lbs of luggage out of SAP international, onto Honduran taxis, buses, and golf carts to a destination I had been unable to find on a political map. As I was collecting my carry-on, I heard "Please be sure your seat belts are securely fastened and your seats and tray tables are in the locked and upright position. We are prepared for departure." WTF?! What do you mean we are prepared for departure? Where are we departing to? Had there been an emergency landing I was unaware of? I turned frantically to the woman beside me. "Why are we leaving?" I asked, "where are we going?" This woman was utterly confused by my confusion. "This plane is going to Honduras," she said, "isn't that where you're going?" Well, I thought so.
Due to my immediate hibernation, I had completely missed every announcement regarding our delays and was unaware of the fact that the plane had sat on the runway for two hours. Under most circumstances, I would have been throughly irritated. But at the time I thought, "Praise Jesus! I can go back to sleep."
When I woke the second time, I was actually in SAP. After going through immigration (a formality), I gathered my bags, which remarkably both made it to their final destination. I then headed through security (also a formality) and was physically shoved through a crowd of people onto the street. When I inquired about exchanging money so I could grab a cab to the bus terminal, I was directed toward a man standing on the corner with a wad of cash in his hand. True to my unprepared nature, I had was unaware of the current exchange rate. But at this point I had a bus to catch. So I exchanged $100 for 1,800 lempiras and got into the taxi. I later calculated that I was hustled by neither the cash man, nor the cabbie. ¡Que suerte!
When I arrived at the bus terminal, the taxi driver opened the back door while two boys asked me where I was going. "Santa Rosa de Copán." They quickly grabbed my bags from the car and ran with them into the terminal, with me chasing behind. They threw them under the bus, told me to board, and we left as soon as I sat down.
I had been told to take this bus to Santa Rosa by Rebecca Westbrook, the Peace Corp volunteer who "hired" me. She was supposed to meet me at the JM restaurant/bus stop to escort me the rest of the way to San Marcos and a place to sleep. However, she had a last-minute training to attend and would be sending someone else to meet me, a random PCV who had nothing to do with San Marcos or the school. The hours on the bus when I was not sleeping were spent contemplating what I was going to do when I arrived in Santa Rosa and there was no one there to meet me. Where would I stay? There is no such thing as a hostel anywhere near San Marcos. I was pleasantly surprised to see the obvious gringa waiting outside the bus. As an unmistakable gringa myself, Kristyn immediately called my name and told me to get back on the bus.
PCV Kristyn was headed to San Marcos in the morning but was staying the night in San Francisco de la Valle with another PCV and invited me to stay in San Fran, which is really only two miles from San Marcos. The bus did not actually take us to San Francisco, but rather dropped us off in what appeared to be the middle of nowhere. Kristyn and I stood on the the road side with my 90 lbs of luggage as dusk fell. "I don't think any taxis will pass this way now," she said. Oh, good. But just as I was beginning to fret, a car pulled over and a man in an army suit loaded my bags in the trunk. In Honduras this is called a halone...hitchhiking, fantastic!
When we were dropped in San Fran, I met Meghan and Kyler, two more PCVs. Before going to Kyler's humble abode, which I later discovered was a Honduran castle, we stopped at a kiosk on the side of the road for Baleadas. I have never been so happy to be in the company of 3 strangers.
When we arrived a la casa de Kyler, the PCVs spent several hours describing life in Honduras while Bogo, Kyler's optimistic golden retriever, chased a cockroach across the floor. They told me about where I was likely to get malaria, and the vaccinations I should have gotten (and didn't) before arriving. They told me about pilas, concrete tubs at each residence filled with questionable water, that are used for washing clothes, among other things. They informed me of the additive I would need to put in the pila to kill the mosquito larvae in the water that cause dengue fever. They warned me about the Bolos, a name for drunkards who wander the streets with limited motor function and pass-out all over town to be found in the morning in the most awkward of places. Apparently there are so many strewn about after Saturday night that the next day is know by the gringos as "superbolo Sunday."
After we had talked about Honduran life for some time, the PCVs asked me what the US was like and what was happening there. Now, I am not one to ignore current events, but I could not think of a single thing to say. "It's mostly gone to shit," I said, "but there is a new band I really like called Beirut." I went to sleep that night on a foam mat on the floor with a sheet and a pillow and I have never experienced a more comfortable bed. Thank (insert idol here) that I was not in New Orleans.
The next morning Meghan, Kristyn, and I caught another Halone into San Marcos. I love haloning. It is so efficient. I was dropped at the "volunteer house" where I would be staying indefinitely. There were quotes written all over the cinder block walls, and a cardboard Christmas tree taped up in the kitchen. Becky (Rebecca Westbrook) had posted notes all over the house welcoming me and explaining how things worked here. This house, too, was quite nice by Honduran standards. Mostly because the floors weren't made of dirt and there was a shower (which I later came to find is as useful as a mirage). My classy home depicted the Honduran standard of living. In theory, I knew the economic situation of the country, and yet I was oddly surprised when it was my reality.
I have had numerous unpleasant flying experiences but this was the itinerary from hell. My original flight was canceled due to hurricane and the new schedule the airlines so kindly booked was infinitely worse. I flew from PDX to Denver where I had a 6 hour layover, Denver to New Orleans with a 10 hour layover through the night, New Orleans to Houston, and finally Houston to San Pedro Sula, at which point I would take a 4 hour bus ride to San Marcos.
Life was tolerable through Denver where I randomly met Lenny in the airport and we drank New Belgium Mother Ship Wit until his flight. It was not until I arrived in New Orleans that I really began to resent Alaska, United, American, and Continental Air. The Plane landed at 8:30 pm and the airport was deserted. I was starving but there was not so much as an open vending machine to be seen.
Given the fact that I was a poor ex-student about to receive a wage of $300 per month, I opted not to spring for the hotel. Typically I don't have a problem sleeping in the airport. The Louis Armstrong international airport, however, resembles Antarctica. I was so ridiculously cold that I could not sleep, and so tired that I had to. So I went outside to sleep in the warm, sticky Louisiana air.
Waking up on a concrete bench in New Orleans officially ranks among my most miserable airport experiences. And I'm not sure if working at the airport makes people behave rudely (surely it must) or if it is actually a prerequisite for working at the airport, but I can't remember a time when I encountered a more unpleasant collection of people. After sleeping sparsely outside, I reentered the airport at about 4:30 am to check in for my flight and proceeded through security. The computer "randomly" selected me for additional screening. Can't you just leave me alone so I can go curl up in a ball somewhere and sleep for the two remaining hours I have until take off!? Sure, she claims this to be a random selection, but I am fairly certain that it was because A) I looked very much like dirty hippie, or B) because my grandpa was on a terrorist watch list most likely because he used to bury his Victornox knife in the plants at the airport before boarding the plane, and would dig it up upon returning. Only suspicious as of late. They took my toothpaste. Who, exactly, decided that confiscating the end of a tube of toothpaste, so I am unable to brush the fowl taste of MSY international out of my mouth, should constitute homeland security?
I was in REM sleep before the plane left the ground. I couldn't even be bothered by the incessant kicking of the child behind me. I awoke two hours later at 11:00 am, the estimated time of arrival at San Pedro Sula. I looked out the window to see the airport and hastily completed the customs forms we received upon boarding. I sat on the plane mentally preparing myself to haul 90 lbs of luggage out of SAP international, onto Honduran taxis, buses, and golf carts to a destination I had been unable to find on a political map. As I was collecting my carry-on, I heard "Please be sure your seat belts are securely fastened and your seats and tray tables are in the locked and upright position. We are prepared for departure." WTF?! What do you mean we are prepared for departure? Where are we departing to? Had there been an emergency landing I was unaware of? I turned frantically to the woman beside me. "Why are we leaving?" I asked, "where are we going?" This woman was utterly confused by my confusion. "This plane is going to Honduras," she said, "isn't that where you're going?" Well, I thought so.
Due to my immediate hibernation, I had completely missed every announcement regarding our delays and was unaware of the fact that the plane had sat on the runway for two hours. Under most circumstances, I would have been throughly irritated. But at the time I thought, "Praise Jesus! I can go back to sleep."
When I woke the second time, I was actually in SAP. After going through immigration (a formality), I gathered my bags, which remarkably both made it to their final destination. I then headed through security (also a formality) and was physically shoved through a crowd of people onto the street. When I inquired about exchanging money so I could grab a cab to the bus terminal, I was directed toward a man standing on the corner with a wad of cash in his hand. True to my unprepared nature, I had was unaware of the current exchange rate. But at this point I had a bus to catch. So I exchanged $100 for 1,800 lempiras and got into the taxi. I later calculated that I was hustled by neither the cash man, nor the cabbie. ¡Que suerte!
When I arrived at the bus terminal, the taxi driver opened the back door while two boys asked me where I was going. "Santa Rosa de Copán." They quickly grabbed my bags from the car and ran with them into the terminal, with me chasing behind. They threw them under the bus, told me to board, and we left as soon as I sat down.
I had been told to take this bus to Santa Rosa by Rebecca Westbrook, the Peace Corp volunteer who "hired" me. She was supposed to meet me at the JM restaurant/bus stop to escort me the rest of the way to San Marcos and a place to sleep. However, she had a last-minute training to attend and would be sending someone else to meet me, a random PCV who had nothing to do with San Marcos or the school. The hours on the bus when I was not sleeping were spent contemplating what I was going to do when I arrived in Santa Rosa and there was no one there to meet me. Where would I stay? There is no such thing as a hostel anywhere near San Marcos. I was pleasantly surprised to see the obvious gringa waiting outside the bus. As an unmistakable gringa myself, Kristyn immediately called my name and told me to get back on the bus.
PCV Kristyn was headed to San Marcos in the morning but was staying the night in San Francisco de la Valle with another PCV and invited me to stay in San Fran, which is really only two miles from San Marcos. The bus did not actually take us to San Francisco, but rather dropped us off in what appeared to be the middle of nowhere. Kristyn and I stood on the the road side with my 90 lbs of luggage as dusk fell. "I don't think any taxis will pass this way now," she said. Oh, good. But just as I was beginning to fret, a car pulled over and a man in an army suit loaded my bags in the trunk. In Honduras this is called a halone...hitchhiking, fantastic!
When we were dropped in San Fran, I met Meghan and Kyler, two more PCVs. Before going to Kyler's humble abode, which I later discovered was a Honduran castle, we stopped at a kiosk on the side of the road for Baleadas. I have never been so happy to be in the company of 3 strangers.
When we arrived a la casa de Kyler, the PCVs spent several hours describing life in Honduras while Bogo, Kyler's optimistic golden retriever, chased a cockroach across the floor. They told me about where I was likely to get malaria, and the vaccinations I should have gotten (and didn't) before arriving. They told me about pilas, concrete tubs at each residence filled with questionable water, that are used for washing clothes, among other things. They informed me of the additive I would need to put in the pila to kill the mosquito larvae in the water that cause dengue fever. They warned me about the Bolos, a name for drunkards who wander the streets with limited motor function and pass-out all over town to be found in the morning in the most awkward of places. Apparently there are so many strewn about after Saturday night that the next day is know by the gringos as "superbolo Sunday."
After we had talked about Honduran life for some time, the PCVs asked me what the US was like and what was happening there. Now, I am not one to ignore current events, but I could not think of a single thing to say. "It's mostly gone to shit," I said, "but there is a new band I really like called Beirut." I went to sleep that night on a foam mat on the floor with a sheet and a pillow and I have never experienced a more comfortable bed. Thank (insert idol here) that I was not in New Orleans.
The next morning Meghan, Kristyn, and I caught another Halone into San Marcos. I love haloning. It is so efficient. I was dropped at the "volunteer house" where I would be staying indefinitely. There were quotes written all over the cinder block walls, and a cardboard Christmas tree taped up in the kitchen. Becky (Rebecca Westbrook) had posted notes all over the house welcoming me and explaining how things worked here. This house, too, was quite nice by Honduran standards. Mostly because the floors weren't made of dirt and there was a shower (which I later came to find is as useful as a mirage). My classy home depicted the Honduran standard of living. In theory, I knew the economic situation of the country, and yet I was oddly surprised when it was my reality.
