I Haven’t Had a Bean in Weeks

Originally posted December 31, 2005 by Linda Lou Burton from Lima, Peru – Seating roulette. Interesting how it’s played. Boarding in Santiago, expecting the window seat this time for sure, I found myself once again in the center, but on the aisle. Ah, no one in the center seat. Could I be so lucky as to have a little room? First switcheroo – girlfriend moved from elsewhere to sit by guyfriend, assigned the other aisle seat. Center seat, now taken. I clamped my elbows closely to my side. Anything sticking into the aisle would get chopped off at the nub, for sure.

Across the aisle from me, two newly-marrieds, doing the Versace stroke. They had a window view, but they pulled down the shade. Behind them, two empty seats. I waited, pounce ready. Before I could blink, a little girl moved from behind me and stretched out in those two seats, ready to sleep. Her window shade also was closed.

Oh well I’ll entertain myself with the GPS map, I thought. Alas, no such feature on this plane. No screen, no games, no room, no air. For five cents I would be miserable. But it’s almost the New Year. We’ll celebrate! Every time zone! Yea! Airbound at last.

Dinner was served. Gunky pasta with meat sauce, salad, roll, a bit of orange-flecked cake. The couple to my right indulged in intimate whisper-talk. I interrupted long enough to say “Our New Year’s dinner, eh?” They laughed. Salt Lake City, they’re headed there, they said. Dinner over, I struggled down the aisle to pee.

No sleep before our Lima stop. Then on the ground, a flood of newbies filled the plane; bags banged against my shoulder, klump, kalump, kalump. Evicted from her comfy seats, the sleeping girl was yanked across the aisle by father’s hand. Too many people now, too little space. I sucked in air, hoarding breath, grasping for some calm. Think of something else, I told myself.

Lee-ma, Peru. Ly-ma bean. Lee-ma. Ly-ma. Nothing could be fine-a. Good grief, I thought, as I scanned Nordnorge’s smorgasbord in my memory bank. I saw salads, seafood, myriad desserts. But no beans, anywhere.

No wonder I’m getting cranky. I haven’t had a bean in weeks.

Play it again, Sam

Originally posted December 31, 2005 by Linda Lou Burton from Santiago, Chile – Time to move on; leave the comfort of  our beautiful hotel; board the the 3 PM shuttle bus to the international airport. Maria was with us again! She had a family barbecue planned for the evening, she said, to bring in the New Year. But she was good-natured, as ever, her gentle melody-voice explaining the four stops we would have to make inside the terminal. One, check our bags and get our boarding pass. Two, go to Counter 54 and pay the exit fee of $18. Three, go through the security line. Four, turn in the declaration form. Check the bags? Oh no, I have to deal with BAGS again. Didn’t my tour information say “Baggage transfers included”? What did that mean?

The international airport was a good distance from the city, a pleasant freeway ride, with stands of pink-tasseled mimosa trees and glossy-leafed magnolias along the way. My Myrtle Beach seatmate and I agreed, it looked like South Carolina. Now, the terminal. Maria and our driver scurried to grab carts, piled the luggage on. Ah, that’s what it means, I thought. Maria helped me push my cart till I reached the line, got into the serpentine maze, then off she went to a special counter with Ross, who’d lost his passport. “Maybe he can just show them that Antarctic pebble he has,” I thought wickedly to myself. “Or the knife he says he won’t take out of his pocket no matter what security tells him.”

My wait began. I made seven serpentine turns before arriving at the check-in counter. But I was cool, full of Buenos Airesian hospitality, ready for anything. Others were not. “Stop fidgeting!” said a mother to her little boy. “Tuck your shirt in!” she said to another child. “Tie your shoes!” she said to a third. Their cart was piled high with enormous bags, the children were leaning, pushing, laying on the floor. “How much longer will it be?” said one of my South Carolina tour mates just behind. “I don’t know,” answered the other. That question, and that answer, repeated on a five-minute track, again and again and again. A Lan Chile employee, gorgeous, sleek and smiling, walked the line, threading plastic locks through every zipper on every piece of luggage. “We want your bags to be safe,” she explained to each of us. “We can’t lock our bags in the US,” I commented. “I know,” she answered, “but we don’t think it’s a good idea to have unlocked bags.” I thanked her profusely.

Overhead, a fright. A Versace perfume ad postered a 40-foot woman in a state of swoon, eyes glazed, in a hands-on ceremony of multiple caressments by several other glazey-eyed swooners. Powerful stuff, Versace. More raunchy than Manuel’s penguins mating. Cover the children’s eyes! Cover mine! It made me chuckle.

Finally I’m up to bat, I swung my fancy-schmancy bags from cart to counter. In no time I had my seat assignment, my gate number, and a smiling wish for a “good trip.” Next to Counter 54, past the blue sign, Maria had said. I saw blue signs ahead, picked the wrong one, backtracked, handed over a US $20. Change back, it was $18 to leave Argentina. Security next. No problem there, except for lack of air. (Why do they call them AIR-ports? Most rooms are incredibly stuffy.) Oops, geez, what was the fourth stop? I couldn’t remember anything else. But there was a gate to stop me again. Hmmmm. Oh, the declaration form! I grabbed one from the counter, checked the boxes, in like flinn, it’s OK, I’m done!

The waiting area by the gate was pleasant, not too crowded, I picked a seat where I could see the plane. Eek! A fright again. The Versace woman was there too, swooning above me, I moved. A tiny snack bar ahead. Aha, I remembered this time. Buy a bottle of water. I approached, asked. My God! Embarrassed. After two weeks I still don’t know the Spanish word for water. The clerk did not speak English. I pointed. She asked a question I did not understand. We leaned closer to one another, neither understanding. Finally she handed me a bottle, told me the price. I began laying money on the counter, but it was not enough. She was frowning at me. I should know how to trade by now. Still embarrassed, I vowed to better prepare for my next trip. An American sitting at the counter finally told me what to do. “Thanks,” I said to him, clutching my precious bottle of water. I slunk back to my seat, away from the scary Versace woman, away from the South Carolina travelers who were now in full-quarrel mode.

On board! And now I see, my boarding pass gave me an aisle seat, not the window I requested. But, ahhh, looky here. Must be a movie star, surely. A young man, handsome, slender, tight jeaned, day-old beard; he nodded, sat, whipped out his cell phone, made a call, low-voiced. “Do you want me to come and run naked on the beach with you?” he almost whispered to the phone. I was reminded of a song, “Hello young lovers, wherever you are”; if you don’t know it, look it up. Shades of Versace.

Buenos Aires to Santiago, that was the first leg of the flight. My Argentinian cowboy-movie star and I waited as others exited, a long, slow process; laughing at the image of what would happen in an emergency. “The disaster instructions show everyone quietly reaching under their seat for their life jacket,” he said. “Yes, and they don’t tell you NOT to pull the cord till they get to the end of the instructions!” I added. “I can see all of the life jackets going whoosh whoosh whoosh inflating before they remember.” We laughed harder. “And exiting the plane!” he said, “you know people would be fighting each other to get out first!” “Right,” I laughed, “pushing and shoving and stepping on each other.” We shook our heads at the thought of it, sniffle-laughing till it was time to go. He was headed for Mendoza.

I exited the plane expecting to spend a few minutes in the waiting area while they spiffed things up for my reboard. But no! We were pinned like cattle in a hot and stuffy glass-walled passage. What was happening? Outside, I saw the familiar brown-hazed hills of Santiago. The crew exited the plane, pushed their way around us. “Why are we waiting here?” I asked one of the flight attendants. “I don’t know.” She shrugged her shoulders and kept walking. An American family waited in line in front of me, Mom and Dad, two teen sons, a daughter, maybe 12. She was cute in flippy short shirt and flip-flop sandals, fingers and toes glossed in Barbie pink. The boys were studying plane activity outside, theorizing our delay. The father was scowling at the crew, as they walked away. The mother began to rattle questions in Spanish; one attendant turned around, answered. I decided to hang close, a language-bridge here, aha! The mother turned back to her family, explained there was a change of planes, we were to go to Gate 17. “For Lima?” I was quick to ask. “For LA?” “Yes,” she nodded, that’s where we’re going.” Well, I thought, at least I have a clue. I stood near the daughter, hoping I’d blend into the family circle. I could be the grandma! I asked her where they’d been, she named the cities, a Christmas holiday in Argentina. We talked about penguins, horses, sheep, the ranches, the barbecues. “I can’t eat lamb!” she said, “cute babies, oh no!” She showed me her fuzzy lamb souvenir.

Finally the line began to move, around a corner, we turned, we’re in an x-ray room! Security, again. What the &%$#*(&)(*&? How many of us have had a chance to purchase bombs and guns since the security check that put us ON the plane? I’ve never been x-rayed getting OFF a plane. But, there it was. Then, worse. My pack was stopped, pushed to the side, I’m signaled over. “Senora, I need you to open your pack,” the attendant said. I smiled, complied, unzipped the top. She pointed to an object, queried, “What is that?” I reached for my laser-thermometer, quickly picked it up. She jumped back a step; I slowed my movements down. “It’s my thermometer,” I said clearly. “Would you like me to show you how it works?” I realized she could see its push-button — could it be a detonator? I didn’t dare to laugh. She studied the object in my hand, I forged ahead and pushed the button. “78” registered on the face panel. “See,” I said, “it shows the temperature in this room.” She nodded, smiled at me. “That’s fine,” she said, “that’s all I need to see.” I was dismissed.

I hurried out the door, but my language-bridge family was nowhere in sight. A marker overhead said Gate 13. I ran, chest tightening with every step, towards Gate 17. I had no idea when my plane was due to leave. I could not bear to miss another flight. Puff puff pant pant Gate 17. There, a flight prepared to leave for Canada. My heart sank. And then, I gained my senses back. “You don’t need no stinking translator,” I thought to myself. “Just read the Departure Board.”

“Lima,” it said. “Gate 21. 7:30. On time.”  Well rats and hallelujah. I had been fretting and rushing for nothing. I had plenty of time. I ambled down the walkway, thinking about the cup of coffee I’d buy at the Dunkin Donuts spot I remembered from my pass-through two weeks earlier. Ah, just ahead I saw my adopted granddaughter in the flippy skirt, waving at me. I might have a donut too, I thought as I reached for my change purse. After all, it was New Year’s Eve. A quick left to the donut counter. It was closed.

No coffee. No donut to dunk. But I had my bottle of water. And I had my gate. And I had time to spare. My Barbie friend came over to chat, while we waited for airport things to happen, in their own good time.

Don’t Cry for Me

Originally posted December 31, 2005 by Linda Lou Burton from Buenos Aires, Argentina – The year was winding down. The trip was winding down. And I was winding down too. Breakfast at 7 in 214, part of the tour stuff, Antarctic adventurers sitting together one more time over eggs and toast. Unassigned table, suddenly I’m with a bunch of Americans, most I hadn’t encountered on the ship. South Carolina, Myrtle Beach, Clemson; Connecticut; New Hampshire; we met in Buenos Aires!

Downstairs, the City Tour at 8. Maria. Maria, blond, slender, people-savvy. Maria knew her city, Maria knew her facts. She told her story golden voiced, syllables stretched slowly into bells, a lovely melody. First corner, a pause. The Opera House. Teatro Colon. Colon Theatre. Known worldwide for its excellent acoustics. One of the world’s premier opera houses. Maria Callas, Toscanini, Stravinsky, Caruso.

We drove on. I snapped my pictures through tour-bus windows. Time, too short. Maria told grand stories about the city, melody creating mood, as we moved through the Centro district, San Telmo, Montserrat, Palermo, La Boca, Puerto Madero. First stop, Recoleta Cemetery. One of the most famous cemeteries in the world. Founded in 1822. Six hectares in size. Famous sculptures, crypts, graves where famous people rest. Historic monuments. Important mausoleums, such as Evita’s, other national heroes, writers, Argentine Presidents.

The bus pulled to the edge of the brick-walled haven of quiet and Maria began her story. Eva Duarte, who married Presidente Peron, a woman of the people, then first lady of the land. Evita! “We’re going to walk around inside,” Maria told us, “and though we believe it is safe in our city, I ask that you leave all jewelry and valuables in the bus.” Since I had only two small cameras — one for each zip-up pocket — I was good to go. We had 20 minutes inside the walled cemetery.

Cats wandered lazily, or curled in a spot of sun. Lives to spare? Maria told more stories. Tour mates darted into walkways for the perfect shot — the angle of an angel’s wing; a name carved in marble, long ago. Long forgotten? A man with a cane, walking alone. Trees shaded the peaceful sighs of the dead, resting now.

Maria disappeared. I could hear no voices, do I go right, or left? I saw the church ahead, hurried to catch up. The Nordnorge sign, lifted high, passing through the gate. Across the street purple flowers beckoned to my camera. Maria and the bus beckoned too. Hurry. I jumped aboard, snapped McDonald’s on the corner as we drove away, on fast-food time.

Second stop, Plaza de Mayo. The city center. Site of Argentina’s most important historical events. Surrounded by Government House, Metropolitan Cathedral, Town Hall, Bank of Argentina. Maria’s history lesson flowed through the bus as we made each turn around the square.

The driver eased the bus to the curb in front of the Cathedral. “Twenty minutes,” Maria said, before she allowed us out the door. “Be back here in 20 minutes.” I stepped into the heat, surrounded by tour buses, radio taxis, tourists, beggars, vendors, orange-vested policio; jumbled real-time and past-time meeting on the square, under a last-day-of-the-year blue sky. Will I be a part of Plaza history now, or will it be a part of me?

The Cathedral portico was lined with beggars; women crouched as crippled; children brushed the arms of passers-by, pleaded. I had nothing in my pocket but cameras. Inside, I offered prayers. The church was huge, ornate, saints and sinners mingled under gold and blue, death and life. Symbols. Faith. And hope. I prayed for children everywhere.

The sidewalk now, vendors hawking Argentinian leather purses, jewelry, t-shirts, flags. Wait patiently for the light to change. Across the street, the Plaza. No demonstration today. But the black fence was there, stay back, stay back, stay this far from Government House. Today it had no use. The Policio were chatting, enjoying the sun.

Tour buses made the turn only a sidewalk-width from the pink walls of Government House. I walked to the front for pictures, stood under the palm trees, saw two guards standing at attention beside the door. I could never get this close to the Capitol in Washington DC. What does this mean, as I stand in the heart of the fourth-largest city in the world? What does it mean about my country?

My twenty minutes were gone. Children and pigeons played in the sunshine of the Plaza, while grown-ups rested on nearby benches, a summer holiday. The blue flag of Argentina decorated the vendor’s stands, hand-sized versions for sale. But I had no money in my pocket, I had to hurry, run, hobble-run through the crowd, waving, waving at Maria, who stood by the door of the bus, ready to move on.

Third stop, La Boca. Little Italy. Mediterranean style. Brightly painted wood and corrugated tin houses inhabited by families, artists, musicians. One of the most picturesque places in the city due to its colorful port setting, said the brochure. A working class neighborhood located at the mouth of the river (La Boca means The Mouth). Main street is Caminito.

We knew before she said it. “The bus will stop for 20 minutes.” I was out in a flash. The street was only two blocks long, but I wanted to absorb the color, the noise, the feel of the place. I walked rapidly to the turn-around spot where I saw boats and river, timing the time I had to leisurely stroll the cobble streets back to the bus.

Blue. Pink. Yellow. Green. Color everywhere, on everything, unexpected curves and angles, a painting hung below a window on a wall of brilliant blue, a wood-carved head jutting from a ledge, flowers, cats, voices, music, caricatures, exaggerated smiles, stick-your-head-in-the-hole-and-get-your-picture-made, postcards for sale, trinkets, souvenirs. A playful place.

Back at the bus, Maria was not there, the driver was not there, the door was closed. We gathered, watched a dog lazing in the door of a shop, knowing this was almost the last thing we’d do together. We did not mind Maria’s tardiness. Here there were trees, a life-sized papier-mache cow to keep us company. Ross confessed, he took a pebble from the shore on one of our Antarctic stops. Mary fussed, told him he is a lout. Maria arrived, and we were on our way. Did Ross understand?

Time was almost up. The bus followed the river, Puerto Madera now, renovation, beautiful new buildings along the water. Offices below, condominiums above, expensive, glitzy, gorgeous; finest restaurants in town here now. The tires of the bus were almost squealing as we hurried back, moving fast, there were planes to catch. Back at the hotel, I packed my bags and turned them over to the concierge to wait for our 3 o’clock airport shuttle. Noon checkout was required.

Needed lunch. Mostly, needed something COLD to drink. It was hot and humid in the lobby, although the hotel staff were dressed in fancy-dancy suits and ties. I checked the temp with the laser-thermometer I keep in my pack. 84 degrees. Meltdown. I headed for the beautiful terrace restaurant at the back of the hotel lobby. Locked! The bar was not an option, cigarette smoke swirled in blue clouds around the plush and comfy chairs. Grrrr. I walked to the back patio, checked the restaurant’s outside door. Locked. I shook and rattled the door, it was after noon and the sign said Open 11 AM. It opened. “May I help you, Senora?” “I’m looking for lunch!” I replied, gruffly. “Then please to come in,” he smiled. I walked inside. It was hotter, muggier, steamier, than the lobby. “Don’t you have air conditioning?” I asked with attitude. “Why is it so hot?”

“We have the glass roof, so we cannot stop the sun come in,” he said, “but we have the fan so you can sit under,” he gestured to a table directly beneath a slowly whirling fan. The room was beautiful, filled with palm trees, climbing vines, orchids, even the song of birds, a tropical jungle-haven. Just ahead the luncheon buffet was spread, the display itself nothing less than a work of art. The table legs were different heights, each course set up at different levels to catch the eye; the plates were huge, and square, perfect for a buffet gorge. I walked around the multi-layered food, entranced. “I guess I’ll stay,” I mumbled. “But only if you have ice.”

“Si, Senora,” he said, pulling out my chair. He brought a bottled Coke, cold from the cooler. He brought a tall sipping-glass. He brought an entire bucket of ice. “Please to help yourself, Senora,” he said, when he saw I had begun to cool down. “Is all for you.” He gestured to the food display. It was true, there were no other customers in the room, and the fabulous assortment of meats, fish, salads, vegetables, desserts, and breads was, in theory, mine.

This was the first moment since my trip began that I’d had so much privacy, so much personal attention, so little need to hurry. I suddenly felt queenly, rested, back on top of my game.

Don’t cry for me, Argentina. I will remember you well.