For my first vacation post (really second), I would like to get the bad stuff out of the way. And if you know me fairly well (or if you've been reading the blog for awhile), you know that the "bad stuff" on a vacation can only mean one thing.
DELTA AIRLINES.
In good news, when I checked in yesterday for my return to Bogota (solo because the boys are in Washington, DC this week), my suitcase weighed in at 49 pounds (out of a possible 50). Thank you very much. The lady at the Delta counter (who is not that awful, old lady who worked there for a hundred years and whose sole purpose in life was to get my trip off to a very rotten start every single time I traveled out of Charleston but who thankfully has retired) was very pleasant.
I went through security and everybody was pleasant there. Smiling and happy.
In the waiting area, I was surrounded by golf-y types leaving Charleston after watching the PGA Championship at Kiawah. They were all happy and pleasant and wearing lots of Izod and sweater vests.
I got on the plane and the flight attendants were nice, even when all those people brought on all those ridiculous big rollaboards that are entirely too humongous to fit under the seat or in the overhead compartment and leave me any room to put my little backpack. Why, people, do you do that?
But still everybody was pleasant and we were set for an on-time departure. You could hear the door being shut and then all of a sudden, some lady from the back screamed "wait, wait!". Turns out the lady who was cleaning the bathroom or stocking the peanuts (that we were never served) was still on the plane. She obviously did not want to go to Atlanta with the rest of us. So the flight attendants had to open the door back up. So much for the head count that they supposedly did...
Other than not being offered a drink or a pack of 9 peanuts, the flight was fine and quick. 45 minutes, up and down.
In Atlanta, I had time to peruse the bookstore, eat some Qdoba and read a little. It was just right.
When it was time to board, the Delta lady announced that they were going to be boarding by zones. Now this is nothing unusual or uncommon. Every airline does it and anybody who's flown on a plane lately knows this. No offense intended to any of my dear Latin friends, but if I may stereotype (and please forgive me if you're offended), Latinos take this zone boarding really as just a suggestion. The Delta lady can call First Class passengers and the line immediately forms and people try to get on. It doesn't matter that they're seated in Cattle Class, back by the bathrooms in the rear of the aircraft. They are going to get on the plane.
To the Delta lady's credit at Gate E3 yesterday, she was having none of that. She said Zone 1 and if you dared show up with a Zone 2 boarding pass, well you could just wait. Another plus for Delta.
By the time I got on the plane, there was still a line of people behind me getting on, but there was absolutely no overhead space left. I wedged my backpack in on top of somebody's guitar case, but rather than the flight attendants communicating with each other to tell the people entering the plane just to gate-check their bags, people just kept rolling on those big suitcases. Finally - and I am not kidding - this whole line of people that took up 2/3 of the airplane had to turn around and get off the plane so that the people down by the bathrooms at the rear of the aircraft could get their humongous rollaboards off the plane to gate-check them. Brilliance.
Despite this little glitch, we didn't trap any cleaning staff and took off pretty much on time. I ate the offered ham and cheese sandwich, potato chips and brownie, and watched The Hunger Games and Wanderlust. Pretty banner flight to get two movies in!
Banner until we hit the turbulence. The pilot had told us early on that we shouldn't have any turbulence until we got close to Bogota and boy was he right. It was all smooth sailing and then we hit a pocket of air that's probably the worst pocket I've ever hit. A male flight attendant was walking down the aisle and when we hit it, he dropped to the ground, in what appeared to be a marriage proposal pose. Or maybe he was praying. At this point, the head flight attendant lady got on the intercom and in a bit of a panicked voice said that everybody needed to be in their seats right then with their seatbelts fastened. DUH.
After a few more bumps, we landed and pulled up at the gate.
And waited.
And waited some more.
Then the pilot came on and said that although he'd originally been told to park at Charlie 11, he was now being directed Bravo 4. But the plane doesn't come with a reverse switch so we had to wait for the tow truck. We finally got towed over to Bravo 4.
And waited.
And waited some more.
Then the pilot came on and said that although he'd been directed to Bravo 4, he was now being told he had to go to Echo something or other. So we waited for the tow truck to come back and tow us over to Echo something or other (which I believe was just an unused parking lot).
Then the pilot came on and said that we had to wait for the buses to come and take us to the terminal.
So we waited.
And waited some more.
As I was exiting the plane, I heard someone ask the pilot if the turbulence was normal for landing in Bogota. He said that you can always expect bumps when landing here (and you can), but this was the worst he'd ever been through coming into Bogota.
By the time we got on the bus, an hour had passed since we'd landed.
(I know this isn't really Delta's fault, but I needed someone to blame and they were the best thing going.)
The only thing that worked without a hitch was the Immigration agent. Thankfully I got to use the diplomatic line and there was only me, myself and I in that line. Thank you for small favors.
But the time I saved in that line was lost, seriously lost, completely lost, waiting for luggage. My 49-pound bag was one of the last ones that came out and by the time I got my bag off the carousel, the line for Customs was like nothing I've ever seen in the Bogota airport. I almost pretended like I was pregnant, just to get in the preferential treatment line. As much weight as I gained on vacation, I probably could have passed for early stages. And then I thought through what was in my suitcase to see if there was anything I could "declare". There was nobody in that line. But I had nothing. Literally nothing.
So I waited.
And waited some more.
I finally exited the airport two hours after I landed.
The Bogota airport is not monumental. Sort of like a bus station on big steroids. It should not be a 2-hour ordeal.
( I also realize after writing this that Delta came out of this smelling like a rose. It's now the Bogota Airport that is on my travel hit list.)
I got into my taxi which was driven by a boy who missed his calling in a punk rock band, asked him to turn the music down and drive fast. I hardly got my teeth brushed before collapsing into bed.
Now that I've got the bad part of the vacation out of the way, stay tuned. The best is yet to come...
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