Wednesday, Dec. 1
Lynda and Mark are off to Mexico. I bet it is warmer there than here in Lima.
We are very happy at the Miraflores Lodge, especially as Ruben has checked his records and yes we have been double-billed and yes he will give us a refund for the third night that we are not going to use. We can’t pack until we get our clothes from the laundry, so, after our scrumptious breakfast buffet, we walk to the mall by the ocean and do some window shopping. We still have a couple of things to pick-up, but will do it on our way home from downtown later. On the way back to the hotel, we stop by the laundry at 10:30 as marked on the slip. We ring the bell, we call, we ring the bell again, but whomever is working is not wanting to come to serve us. We walk the half-block to the hotel and amuse ourselves until 11, the time she said the stuff would be ready. On our return at eleven, Peter finds the girl next door talking with the hairdresser who has no clients. She rushes in the back and tells us the stuff will be ready in the afternoon. I tell her we have a flight in the afternoon to return to Canada (a little lie, but we want to get packed!) She retrieves a shirt of Peter’s from the drier and shows us that it is not yet dry. When will it be dry? Well, half an hour. So, it is back to the hotel and, finally, at about 11:45 our stuff is all neatly folded in a plastic bag and we can continue our day.
After fitting everything in our littlish bags, we put them in a storage room and head downtown. It is about 15 minutes to the rapid-transit bus that runs down the centre of the highway right through Lima. For the first, and only, time the system is overflowing with riders. We are squeezed onto the bus. Immediately, a man standing by the fold-up/down seats for the handicapped and old, puts the chair down, moves over, and gives me a seat. I don’t feel old, and I know I have some handicaps but they aren’t visible, but I just graciously thank him and get to sit the twenty minutes into the centre of town. This is the only South American city where the men were so polite.
We wander along the downtown pedestrian street, looking in shops but not buying much. We stop for lunch at an outdoor terrace of a restaurant, but only have a beer as our breakfast feast is still digesting - and I have to get weighed on Friday. The trip back is uneventful and the bus less crowded. I take a picture of the rapid-transit station in the central station. It is quite empty, but still the floors are gleaming. I have to use the washroom before getting the bus and it, also, is spotlessly clean with toilet paper available.
We do our final shopping in Miraflores and find spaces where none exist to pack the last few items. Dinner is once again at the Cortez, the little place around the corner. I order an appetizer I think I can share with Peter and it is just okay - a won ton roll with a bit of cheese onside. But, once again, the soup - this time “diet” chicken - is good. Peter stuck with the chicken and a salad. Yes, Peter is eating salads these days.
The “private taxi” which the hotel uses to shuttle people (for $20) to the airport is not only new, shiny, and clean, but the driver is spiffed-up and a real pro as he swerves and dodges through the incredible traffic. It is forty-five minutes to the airport with virtually no signage to get you there. It is a well-spent twenty dollars.
All goes well with check-in. Yes, we will have to collect our bags in Miami and then put them back into the system, but they are checked through to Vancouver. Unfortunately, there is a delay of the flight. We sit is at the gate as the delay is extended. Our two and a half stop-over in Miami is dwindling. Finally, we are all loaded on the plane and still we sit. By the time we taxi out to the runway we are one and a half hours late. Our turn-around time in Miami is now one hour! If we miss our connection, I miss the Leonard Cohen concert that is a once-in-a-lifetime experience for me. Right here I would love to swear, but there is simply nothing I can do so I think I will just go to sleep and hope for the best. I ask Peter not to disturb me for food if they serve any and I’m out like a light until just before we start the decent into Miami. It is now….
Thursday, Dec. 2.The day we are supposed to arrive in Vancouver around 2 p.m. and I am supposed to go to the concert of the century.
Not to be. Buy the time the plane spends fifteen minutes getting to its dock and we spend fifteen minutes walking to were you pick-up your luggage and the fifteen minutes we wait for our luggage, we now have no time to go through customs and get ourselves back through security to the gate. In fact, we don’t even know where the gate is as we are changing from American Airlines to Alaska. When we arrive at the Alaska desk there are only workers there and they confirm that our plane is gone! We are too weary, and I am to disappointed, to get unset. The staff are wonderful and put Peter through to a lady who spends most of an hour with him on the phone getting us alternative flights to Vancouver. We are booked back on A.A. through Houston and will arrive in Vancouver at 8:05 p.m. if nothing goes wrong. Luckily, while Peter is rebooking us, I get the computer going and phone Patrick on Skype - and get him out of bed at 6 a.m. Pacific time - it is 9 a.m. in Miami. He will contact Douglas to inform him of my problem and tell him to find someone who would like to go and use my ticket. As it turns out, a friend of Willow’s grandmother, with whom I was to go, will use the ticket. I’m happy that this has been arranged.
The trip back is fairly uneventful. In two months, I have left a book on an airplane in Mendoza, I have left my Tevas in Pucon or Temuco or Puerto Varas, and Peter has left his cheap water-bottle on the bus coming into Lima. So when we hear the announcement in the Houston airport for Peter Johnstone to come “somewhere” - we don’t hear clearly - we figure it is something left again. Peter asks at the volunteer-helper desk and they tell him to use a courtesy phone to call the airline. Nobody at Alaska knows what the announcement is about, so we figure maybe there is another Peejay. We have a five-hour lay-over, so we continue filling our time. As I get back from my power-walk, Peter is searching his pockets and he asks me when was the last time we had our passports . Yes, you smart people have guessed the climax! Now another, slightly more desperate and anxious announcement comes on clearly stating Peter’s name and the gate to which he is to report. I am relieved because it is obvious that somebody has found his passport. When he returns, he says the lady has a sense of humour and has told him his passport almost went to Paris without him. That is where the plane was scheduled to go next. We walk across to the bar and Peter has a way too expensive beer.
We are in business class to Vancouver from Houston, so we have a couple of drinks on the flight. We are mellow and relieved when we enter the airport and find Antigone waiting to drive us home. Well, not quite home. We drive first to the New West. curling club to say hi to Patrick, watch a few ends of his game, and then home to a comfortable bed and a good night’s sleep. We have two days in Vancouver before it is onward and upward (or is it downward) to New Zealand.
The Rapid-transit bus stop in downtown Lima.
Peter hits the wall.
That's us ready to start again from Vanouver to Auckland.
This last picture is a gentleman in Lima who is running for president in the 2011 election.
Waihi Beach at low tide.
Sculpture in Katikati.
Murals in Kaikati.
Kiwi World in Te Puke, Kiwi fruit capital.
Lots of grapes as we approach Gisborne.
Where the rivers meet.
