Buen Viaje

I hope this satisfies you, anxious readers.

In my twenty years of traveling, it seems I've just been extraordinarily lucky. So there was that one time when five-year-old me had to run (with her grandparents, don't worry) to catch her plane to Disney World. And that disastrous return from Mexico last summer. But this time I had somehow lulled myself into thinking it would be a flawless journey. Surprise!

My tranquil last-Sunday-morning-at-home got hectic when I discovered that the first leg of my journey, from Charlotte to Atlanta, had been canceled due to freak winter weather in the Southeast. Hm. No matter, it's only three and a half hours from my house to Atlanta, plenty of time to make the drive and catch my 9:15 pm flight, I thought. It was still on schedule according to the Delta website. However, a glance at my online itinerary turned up a more interesting tidbit--I had been inexplicably re-booked for Wednesday, March 14. Tranquil morning morphed into serious action. I spent all morning--save a brief church visit and a quick Japanese lunch--calling every number for Delta I could find, with zero success, until I finally annoyed the robotic voice on the other end long enough to be connected to a human being. I explained my situation, asserting that anything other than a spot on the 9:15 flight was unacceptable. Luckily, she was able to get me a seat on my originally scheduled flight (thank you). So, the entire morning I had set aside for calm final packing and checking to make sure I had everything turned into about ten minutes of tearing around my house, throwing random last minute items into my luggage and stopping just long enough to make sure my passport and visa were in my possession. The essentials, you know.

We hop in the car and begin the drive to Atlanta, where the weather is cool but clear according to all information I could find. (Note: never, ever trust me if you need reliable information about road conditions.) We leave sometime after 2:00 pm. The farther southwest we drive, the bigger the blobs of snow sploosh to the ground. "It's so pretty!" gushes my sister. Decidedly not, I counter. "No need to worryyy, even though we're in a flurryyy," she croons in her best Allison Krauss twang, "Ohhh, Atlant-uhh!" (Caitlin: I know you're going to kill me for including that, but it had to be done. I love you.) As my intrepid dad navigates the treacherous roads, my mom calls Delta practically every five minutes to check the status of my flight--no sense risking our lives if it gets canceled. "Flight one-forty-seven," she intones over and over again, desperate to gain the understanding of that aloof robotic voice on the other end. On time. The flurries increase. On time. The slush thickens on the road. On time. A hundred miles to our exit, a little under five hours until my flight. Hmm.

Around 5:30 I begin losing hope. The slush is piling up, the traffic's barely moving, we're sliding here and there. A call from home tells us it's snowing there too, school is canceled for the next day. We stop to get gas. There are six inches of snow on the ground. I call and my flight is STILL on time. My parents are strangely optimistic, while I maintain that arriving in time for the flight is highly improbable. (I know you're all surprised by this pessimism. How unlike me!)

Shortly after 6:00 the road is suddenly clear, the snow now just rain. A smidgin of hope? No, I must not allow it. But a few minutes later I am rewarded with a fiery burnt sienna sunset--dare I call it the light at the end of the tunnel? We finally arrive at Hartsfield-Jackson. Amazingly, it is only about 7:20 pm. La familia drops me off out front. I decide that being rushed might actually be the way to travel--no time to think about what you're leaving behind. I check in and head for security, receiving my first compliment from a TSA guy who checks out my visa and says, "Chile. You live down there?" Ha, apparently I pass for a chilena. I'm ok with that. I'm loading my worldly possessions onto the conveyor belt when I hear, "Nobody move! Stop moving! Stop moving!" Everyone is still. Security breach, mutters my TSA agent. But then the announcement: it's just a drill. Thanks for participating. I make it to my gate, make a few calls, board on time. I can't believe we pulled this off.

Of course, the trip's not over yet. At 10:30 we are still sitting at the gate, waiting for de-icing and a spot in the take-off sequence. From my vantage point on the wing (the right wing, incidentally) I am in prime viewing position for my first de-icing experience. The machine comes close and barely has a chance to spray the tip of the wing before I hear the captain saying, "Oooo-kaaay, folks, we're done with de-icing, let's take off!" Whaaat? There is definitely still snow on that wing. I get a weird feeling. We taxi over to the runway. Finally, as my heart starts beating out of my chest and I instinctively clutch the two prayer books I've brought along, his voice returns, "Oooops, thanks to some observant passengers, we've realized we need some more de-icing!" Duh. But now we have to wait for another spot in line and...it's 3:00 am before we finally take off.

I am amused by roughly half the passengers on the plane who are on their way to embark on a Princess cruise. Hereafter they shall be called The Cruise People. The Cruise People feel they have Special Status because they might miss their cruise due to our interminable delays. "Where do you leave from?" inquires one Cruise Person to another. "Oh, I dunno, Val-, Vala-something," answers the other. He means Valparaíso , where I'll be studying all semester. Pablo Neruda might roll over in his grave (cliché, cliché) to hear them botch the name of his city like that. With an extra seat next to me and Doubt as an inflight movie option, I have a most pleasant journey.

We arrive in Santiago around 12:00 pm. I stand in line to find out that I am exempt from the reciprocity fee levied on North Americans and Australians since I've already forked over big bucks for a student visa. The Cruise People, despite being reassured that Princess will not sail without them, are still freaking out. They feel their Special Status entitles them to be expedited through immigration. One fine specimen, hereafter known as the Ugly American, takes charge of the situation. A layperson as far as I can tell, not a Princess representative, her shrill voice echoes through the halls of Arturo Benitez airport as she directs confused American retirees. The Ugly American has a tight, shiny face and a no-nonsense ponytail. She is dressed in running clothes. A family with an older woman in need of a wheelchair is among The Cruise People, and the Ugly American takes it upon herself to help them cut in line, ostensibly to obtain said wheelchair with more haste. A forthright German in line just behind me has a problem with this, and takes her on: "Ma'am, what you're doing isn't fair. I understand what she needs, but the rest of us are waiting. THIS is exactly why YOU have to pay that reciprocity fee back there! I wish they would make you pay MORE!!!" he rants. Ooh. She rebuffs him, clearly considering herself the heroine for rescuing this poor woman and her family, though her help hasn't paid off with any noticeable results. Ah, intercultural exchanges.

I clear immigration and head to customs. An official calls me aside, wishes to open my bag. I acquiesce, of course, and when she asks me what it contains, I explain that I'm carrying clothes and some electronics. "Any food?" she queries. "Yes, a bag of cookies, I think that's all," I respond. Clearly doubting me, she reaches inside and feels around, her hand emerging triumphantly as she clutches my hidden contraband...

...a bag of sliced almonds that my Mommy packed me as a snack. I have completely forgotten about them, and that is seriously not just a lie I made up for the customs people. "Well, the fact remains that here they are," she says smugly, "and you didn't declare them. I'll have to ask someone about this." I agree to wait, silently kicking myself for surviving all of this and then being denied entry to Chile for a boring bag of almonds. A few minutes later she returns, clearly disappointed. "They say it's ok, because they're sliced. But NEXT TIME..." she warns. I mutter apologies in my sweetest Spanish and gather my stuff. Heading outside, I don't see my driver. But a really nice taxi guy named Andres helps me drag my bags to a pay phone. Then he gets me change and helps me dial the number for Macarena, my coordinator at the university. Being a foreign woman who speaks decent Spanish has its perks. Finally, we locate my driver and I bid adios to Andres, my first Chilean friend. (You, customs lady, certainly do NOT count).

For the next hour and a half I drift in and out of consciousness and several climate zones. We start in the Mediterranean-esque Santiago area, where there are straight-up avocado orchards as well as fields of practically any other fruit you can name. The next time I awaken, we are speeding through wine country, vineyards on both sides of the road. When I wake up for good, we have arrived in Viña del Mar and are searching the meandering streets for my host family's apartment. My host dad, Alvaro, greets me and lugs my bags up to the fourth floor, where Maria Elena, my host mom, awaits us. The apartment is adorable and so are they! I settle in, shower, eat, and then crash. When I wake up, my host brother David sets up my wireless internet and Maria Elena fusses over me, bringing me countless cups of tea and a bowl of oatmeal, while Alvaro pops in with the occasional joke.

Así no ma', po. Hasta pronto.