Sat June 12: Tick tack, tick tack, boom!

Ring. Ring. Riiiiiiing! Blandine jumps out of bed, startled and picks up the house phone. Within seconds her face turns dead serious, she hangs up the phone and whisper-shouts: “That’s the taxi, it’s outside the door, and he’s smack on time!”
Me: “Hang on; shouldn’t the alarm have gone off 15 minutes ago?”
She: “Yes, but I must have forgot to reset the alarm after I tested it.”

We throw our sleep-infused limbs in our clothes at heart-wrecking speed, zip up our bags and run down the stairs, out into the street, interested in nothing but limiting the embarrassment in front of the waiting cab driver. The cab driver looks as sleepy as we are, throws our flight bags in the boot of the car, flips the car around, and enters “Heathrow, terminal 3” in the GPS, before our racing hearts have a chance to calm down.

The ride to the airport is uneventful: the grey station wagon glides past miles of residential streets, lined with similar-looking reddish terraced houses, basking in the morning sunlight. Most of their brick facades have been adorned with England flags, eagerly anticipating the performance of this nation’s finest sons against the US. Tonight, England and America will be divided by more than a common language. England’s credibility is on the line, playing against a former colony that insists on calling this sport “soccer”, a term whose popularity rivals America’s success in the World Cup. If we miss this flight because of volcano eruptions, massive car accidents, or British Airways strikes, rest assured that I will spend this evening doing what every self-respecting English football fan would do: spend 30 minutes queuing for a pint of overpriced, foamless,  cold beer in a sweaty, jam-packed pub, with a giant TV screen as backdrop. Then down it in 5 minutes only to repeat the process, over and again, mate!

The woman at the British Airways counter is efficient: she only wants to see our passport and before I can even tell her that we’d like an exit row or aisle seat, my boarding pass is printed.  It’s too early to get into an argument, so I decide to vent my frustration on the next available target: the clerk making general announcements at the security point.

Clerk: “All liquids must be put in a clear plastic bag.”
Me, with big smirk on face: “Erhm, Sir? I’m composed of at least 60% water, would you happen to have a plastic bag for me?”
Clerk: “Actually you are made of at least 70% water, mate.”
Me: ”I may not be the brightes tool in the shed, but I have the feeling you’re not really flattering me at the moment.”
As I walked on I looked back and saw him chuckle.

London – Madrid: We lost our spot on the runway and sat in a grounded airplane for an hour before we took off. Iberia chooses to calm down people's nerves by playing the instrumental version of what must be the biggest collection of cheesy classics. Afterthe intercom aired Phil Collins’ “A Groovy kind of love” for the third time, my knuckles turn white and I want to punch someone. We finally take off. The connection to Lima would be tight, Blandine wonders whether our luggage will make it. She was prepared for this, and has moved a set of clothing and our toothbrushes to her daypack.

Madrid – Lima: We made the connection in time and watched two mediocre movies, only because there was nothing else to do. The flight attendant wanted to know whether we’ll have the chicken or the pasta. Duh, I’d start laying eggs myself if I’d eat more chicken.

Airport air at USD 7.5/hour, anyone?
It took us a bit over 11 hours from Madrid to land with red eyes at Lima International. Only 4 hours to go until our red-eye flight to La Paz.  My last landing at Lima airport, a good 15 years ago, came to mind: a sauna with 3rd world paper-pushers whose only desire is to make you suffer through immigration. And just before you walk out, the intimidating sight of one hundred heavily armed military in camouflage suit, lining the entire wall of the arrivals hall. Today’s Lima airport is a far cry from that scenario: air-conditioned halls, friendly immigration officers, upscale boutiques and a food court with all the international fare you could shake a stick at. Peru was waiting for us with open arms. We’d soon find out why: everyone entering the country pays a departure tax. “Mr Immigration Officer, we’re here for 4 hours, clearly just in transit. We really only need to pick up our bags from the luggage carrousel, then check in with TACA airlines and hang around in the departure lounge, that’s all.” No amount of explaining would change anything; the luggage carousel that was going to spit out our luggage was not in the transit area, but in Peru. We had gained the right to spend the next four hours breathing airport oxygen, eat overpriced airport food (Dunkin’ Donuts, anyone?), be Starbucks lounge lizards (free WIFI), then be charged the Peruvian departure tax of USD 31 per person. This new airport doesn’t build itself, right? Long live capitalism!

Lima – La Paz: nice ride, loads of leg room, but I'm too tired to appreciate much of it. With more than 20 hours of travel in our legs we spent this flight playing tag with consciousness. At 12:30 the landing wheels hit Bolivian ground. We have arrived.