Journal Entry 3: December 18, 2013
THE DOMINO EFFECT
As most of you know: I have a twin brother, and one of the many perks of being a twin is always having somebody you can do anything with. Luckily, we shared the same fascination for adventure and wanderlust, and spent most of our time together, doing the things that kept our deep cravings and need for travel at bay. It wasn’t long after taking on Mt. Mansfield before we realized that we needed something more, something much more. The high I experienced, from our three-day adventure, was enough to get me through the season’s change, but not enough to get me through the remaining stretch of 2013. The mountains were calling, begging me to return and I couldn’t muster up the willpower to contain the urges from overpowering my everyday thought. Most of my spare time became devoted to researching local trails along with trails that were unreachable by land. After all, it was nice to dream about places that seemed impractical to hike, due to my job which required around the clock attention.
At the time, I lived in Center City Philadelphia and was amongst the sleepless people that inhabited it. The energy of the city was contagious and, at times, overbearing, but it was what kept me going and fueled my life. You were never alone in a place like that and could always find something to do. My brother, on the other hand, lived with his girlfriend in Mt. Gretna, Pennsylvania. The places we resided, couldn’t have been further from alike. The town he lived in was immune to the troubles of the big city and the worries of everyday life, and after life in the city for a few years, I found myself making the two-hour drive to his place almost every weekend. Just like the city gave me energy, staying with my brother gave me peace and solace. I could feel the worries and stress liquefy from my body as soon as I pulled into his driveway. We spent the evenings grilling, drinking, and taking the dogs for long hikes on the surroundings trails. Any worries that remained were irrelevant and everything we did, we did because we wanted to, not because we had to. By the time Sunday came around, I was usually fully rejuvenated and ready to head back to Philadelphia. The short weekend trips were enough to re-center my frame of mind without diminishing the tranquil effects I gained from them.
It was my brother’s place, where we spent most of our time planning trips and doing research on trails outside of U.S. borders. We entertained thoughts of an extensive international adventure, but never put too much energy into it because, at the time, it wasn’t feasible. It was one of those things where it was fun to plan and dream about, but not get too excited over. We had flirted with the idea of an international adventure for weeks on end and one night, out of the blue, my brother called me saying: “Are we gonna do this or what? I found a roundtrip flight to Patagonia, Chile for about $2,000 each and I have it up on my screen ready to hit ‘confirm purchase,’ right now.” In the pressure of the moment, I fumbled and stuttered, finally, letting the words: “do it” slip from my mouth. At the moment, there were two things I knew to be certain: if I didn’t commit by saying yes, the trip would never happen and if I said no, I would be left wondering why I never said yes, for the rest of my life. Breaking that international seal is a highly fragile moment and needs to be taken seriously. It is one of those opportunities that only comes along every so often, and if you wave to it as it goes by, there is a good chance that the same opportunity could take years to swing by again.
ONE DAY’S JOURNEY
An adventure I grew up fantasizing about, was no more than a day’s journey away. We had a long stretch of flights before we would officially step foot onto international soil. Honestly, I didn’t know how to feel, as this was an entirely new experience. Obviously, I was beyond excited, but knew it would take stepping foot off of the plane to surface any emotions. When it came to extremely long flights, I didn’t have much experience. A typical flight for my job was usually no more than three hours, and I made them all of the time. The longest flights I had to endure, were from the east coast to the west coast (about six hours), and they were enough to raise some of the nastiest bouts of anxiety and panic I had ever felt. Every time I had to make a trip to the west coast, I got a deep pit in my stomach because I knew exactly what I was in for. I’ve tried everything from generic sleeping water to sleeping pills that were sold in the Hudson News stores, all over the airport. Nothing ever seemed to work, and I was always left to face the doom of my own making. Sometimes, the torture I experienced was so severe that I often thought about holding my breath until I passed out, but I usually realize how bad of an idea that is. So when I found out that we had four back-to-back flights, one of them being over eleven hours, I was devastated. I wasn’t worried about the short flights at all, rather, I was fixated on the eleven-plus-hour flight from Miami to Santiago, Chile. Nevertheless, I remained optimistic in hopes that this time it would be different and that since it was almost double the typical east to west coast venture, it would have the reverse effect. Unfortunately, I would have to find out when that time came and just hope for the best.
By the time morning approached, we were both wide awake, excited, and ready to hit the road. The anticipation had been building for the past 30 days, and we were finally ready to take on the final step, in starting one of the greatest journeys we had ever done. The most exciting part of the trip was that we were about to do what most people dream of, but never do because, well, you already know why.
WELL, I WASN’T PREPARED FOR THIS…
Our first stretch, from Philadelphia to Miami, was almost seamless. It was just another routine domestic flight that I had made over a hundred times. We only had one minor mishap in Philadelphia, where the lady put us both on edge by saying that she couldn’t find our names in the system and that she was having a hard time locating our tickets. She typed away making unpromising facial expressions, leading us to believe that something had gone terribly wrong with our bookings. We, without her asking, made sure to show her several emails from LAN Airlines letting us know that we were checked-in for our flight. She glanced at our phones, as if to indulge us, and went straight back to her keyboard, where her fingers smashed away. With one final head nod, she said: “Ah, here we go.” The sigh I let out was loud enough to be heard by the random bystanders, waiting in line behind us. I found myself, unintentionally, holding my breath in anticipation of whether or not she would find our tickets. After all, it was way too early in the trip for any trouble like that.
Ever since I was a kid, I loved the feeling of entering an airport. Something about them screamed, “IT’S TIME FOR AN ADVENTURE”! The long lines and long layovers never bothered me because it usually meant I was heading somewhere away from home, and that was always exciting, even if it was a place I had already been over 100 times. That same feeling had yet to fade as we made the short flight down the coast to Miami. When we arrived at Miami International Airport, we had just long enough to reorganize our packs and get ready for the eleven-hour flight to Santiago, Chile. No amount of time could’ve prepared me for the next flight, and I had no choice, but to face the ruin that laid ahead. It was an overnight flight, and I was hoping that I would be able to fall asleep like any other typical night. Unfortunately, that was not the case. In fact, it was far from it.
Within an hour of taking off, I felt a small tingle make its way down the back of my legs. Immediately, I knew what was happening and knew there was nothing I could do to stop it. Inevitably, the small tingle turned into a network of tingles making it impossible to sit still. The feeling was exacerbated when I realized I couldn’t fully stretch my legs, due to the small amount of legroom I was allotted. I became consumed by the inner makings of my own mind, and every attempt to escape was futile. It wasn’t long until my body temperature rose and the sweat started dripping down my chest and back. It was the feeling of pure insanity, and I could hear my heart pound with every passing second. I was trapped inside of a nightmare I couldn’t escape, and the flight had just begun. I only had one remedy, and that was leaving my seat to walk around the cabin. Within seconds of standing up, the feeling of anxiety would pass, and my body temperature would begin to regulate. Any chance I got, I made an attempt for the bathroom, so I could pretend to wait in line. The cool air was pleasing, and the walking space was satisfying. The feeling of anxiety was unbearable, and I would become heartbroken during patches of turbulence as it meant I had to return to my seat and let the cycle of panic and anxiety take its course. This vicious cycle went on for hours and felt like a lifetime. Eventually, I managed to fall asleep and let the nightmare subside. It was, and always will be, a flight that I’ll never forget.
SANTIAGO INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
I could’ve cried with happiness, at the sound of the Captain’s voice: “If everybody could please fasten your seatbelt, we will be making our final approach into Santiago, Chile”. It had been well over eleven hours since I had fresh air to breathe and more than three-feet to walk. By the time we entered the foreign airport, we were officially in unmarked territory. The signs read in Spanish, and we were ready to knock out the final few remaining flights. We had two more flights to catch: the first one was to Puerto Montt and the second to Punta Arenas. We had about two hours until our connecting flight to Puerto Montt, giving us with plenty of time to make it to our gate. Those of you who’ve flown internationally before, know that when you get off of the plane, you either head left or right. One direction leads toward the international connections wing and the other toward the domestic connections wing. Unfortunately, we were relatively new to international airports, so we stood staring at each sign, unsure which path to take. To say the least, we over thought our decision and headed for the international connections wing. Our thinking was that we were just on an international flight so the international connections wing must be the correct path to take. Well, that turned out to be a mistake and sliced a good fifteen minutes off of the clock. The more we thought about it, the more it made sense. We were connecting to a flight that was flying domestically within Chile, not another international flight. We’ll just mark that one up to being ‘overly excited’.
After some minor confusion, with deciphering the Spanish signs, we made it back to the domestic wing and were on the right path yet again! Being somewhat new to international travel, although, I’ve been to Mexico and the Dominican Republic where I had the guidance of a parent or guardian, we were unaware of the steps required before we could go to our gate. We only had each other to rely on, and it was like the blind leading the blind. We did our best to follow the streams of people flooding down the airport halls, but they all seemed to scatter into different directions and corridors, leaving us to figure things out for ourselves. Luckily, our bags were small enough that we didn’t need to check them. The time we saved, by not checking our bags, more than made up for the minor mishap back at the international connections wing. Unfortunately, that time was eaten once more, by our unsuccessful search for the customs counter. Our smiles slowly faded as the clock ticked down. With every wasting minute, our hope diminished and we grew increasingly flustered. We gazed at the long line of foreigners standing between us and the arrival counter, where we would officially enter Chile. The line was anything but comforting, and the clock was still ticking down. Another fifteen minutes passed, as we slowly inched toward the security officials, who were stamping passports. While waiting in line, we noticed another block of windows, whose line was as equally numbered as ours. We started questioning if we were in the correct line and what the other line could be for. Frustrated with the unclear signs, we decided to investigate, just in case we were standing in the wrong line. My brother headed for the other window while I maintained our current position in line.
“Sam…Sam! We gotta go, this is the wrong line!” My eyes fell to the floor, followed by a long exhale. I was so angry that I could’ve punched a wall. The clock clearly wasn’t in our favor, as we continued making mistake after mistake. Just when I thought nothing else could top the mistake we had just made, my brother went on to say: “after we finish this line we need to go back to the line we were originally in to get our arrival stamp.” We shared the same blank expression, as we stood there feeling extremely defeated. Making our connecting flight officially seemed impossible. The line we were originally in, barely moved, and other passengers, arriving from their flights, began topping it off. There was nothing we could do but wait patiently for our turn at the mystery counter. The worst part about our situation was that we had no idea what we were in line for. The only detail we knew, was that since we were from the USA (one of many countries listed,) we had to go through this line first. At least with the other line, we knew that it was for the arrival stamp. When we made it to the counter, we got a chance to see exactly why we were in line. Apparently, we were due up to pay Chile’s reciprocity fee. (What’s that, you ask? It is a fee that Chile charges other counties who reciprocate the love!! It’s quite the vicious cycle and since our visit, they have abolished the fee). The fee was a whopping 130USD per person. Fortunately, the visa would last the lifetime of our passports. Unfortunately, we weren’t prepared to pay that amount of money to enter the country, as we had zero idea the fee existed. I only had 400USD with me and had budgeted that money for the entire two-week trip, not including the reciprocity fee… The lady at the counter tossed aside every other twenty-dollar bill, as they didn’t meet their currency standard. They only accepted clean, crisp American currency. Between the two of us, we didn’t have enough “acceptable” bills to pay the 260USD entrance visa. Thank god they accepted credit cards! My brother put the entire sum on his credit card, saving us from using the cash we brought. The fee alone would’ve eliminated over 30% of my cash.
DISMISS ALL HOPE, BUT ONE
After forking over the fee, we grabbed our packs and shifted to the other line. The line was just as long as we had left it, only this go around, we had a lot less time on the clock. Our hearts raced and every step we took, made us realize how close we were cutting it. If we played our cards right, we still had a chance to make the flight, but one more wrong move could cost us everything. From the counter, we could see the wide open hallway and were extremely pleased with the sight. We were pretty confident that, once we got our stamps, the gates would be just on the other side of the hallway. My eyes widened, as the security official slammed the arrival stamp onto my passport. I snatched my passport from his fingers, and we headed for the open hallway. Our smiles regained their honor, as we entered, what we thought to be, the final corridor. But, just as quickly as they formed, they were ripped from our faces. We stood staring at the hundreds of other travelers, tangled into each other. The journey to our gate was far from over, and it was a terrible thing to learn with only 45 minutes left on the clock. The place was in complete chaos, and we didn’t even know where to start. We scanned the massive ticketing hub, in search for the customs security checkpoint. Sitting off to the side, hidden from the chaos, was a lonely security scanner accompanied by its security officers. We thought that must be it and headed directly for it.
From the distance, we could make out what appeared to be an angel. For a brief second, I could’ve sworn that I saw a halo sitting atop the man’s head, but then again, it must have just been the sun reflecting at an awkward angle. The man was no angel, just a regular Chilean man who did the deeds of one. He single-handily saved us from our own peril. He was standing between us and the customs security checkpoint, so we asked him if we were in the right place. His English was broken, but he spoke it well enough that we could understand what he was trying to say. He motioned for our customs forms and asked if we had any food to claim. We told him that we had food in our packs, but didn’t think that we needed to claim it. He shook his head and told us that if we didn’t claim our food, we would have to pay a 400USD fine and sit in the security office until the issue was resolved. He mentioned that it could take an hour or all day, but that we would surely miss our connecting flight. He ripped up our forms and gave us two new ones. He rushed us through the form because he knew our time was limited, and before I was even done signing it, he snatched them away and headed for customs security. He and the security officers exchanged words as he waved us over. He grabbed our packs and took over the process, putting them through the security screener for us. The customs officers ripped through our bags looking for anything that did not belong in their country. I could have only imagined how upset we would have been if we didn’t claim our food. It would’ve been a total nightmare, and we would be stuck in the security office instead of catching our connecting flight.
He continued to work his magic by rushing us through customs and on to the ticketing counter (another step we didn’t realize we had to do). The clock’s time was meager, and the line for the ticketing counter was just as you expected, long. He grabbed us by the shoulders and dragged us to the front of the line. We apologetically waved to everybody as we skipped ahead, but, at the moment, could’ve cared less because it was time we literally couldn’t afford to waste. We had less than fifteen minutes before the gate would close and still had to go through security. The lady at the ticketing counter said that our bags were too big for the overhead space and that we would need to check them before she could give us our tickets. I could’ve cared less because we didn’t have time to argue, but my brother, on the other hand, was reluctant to part with his bag. It was like the scene from The Mummy when Jonathan stops for the treasure, but the ceiling was caving in on them, so Rick grabs him by the shoulder to get him out of there (this will only make sense if you’ve seen the movie). We traded our bags for the tickets and B-lined it for security. Thankfully, the roof wasn’t caving in on us, but if most certainly felt like it. I couldn’t believe how close we were cutting it and that not but two hours ago, we were relaxed, taking our time, and strolling through the airport. While waiting in line, we watched traveler after traveler take their turn lackadaisically putting their carry-on luggage through the security scanner. I wanted to shout: “What are you doing??? Let’s get a move on!!” But, instead, I just stood there watching the clock tick down. I’m pretty sure I was holding my breath during the time we spent in line, as I couldn’t bear the anticipation.
IT’S ALL WORTH IT IN THE END
With our shoes in hand and the clock all but out, we sprinted toward the gate. I kid you not when I say; we had less than thirty seconds before they would shut the gate for good. Thanks to our “guardian angel,” we had another shot at making our flight. He was the difference between sitting in the security office, for not claiming food and a very small window of opportunity. The gate was within sight, and we could see a woman standing at the counter, with a grin on her face, waving us down to the final corridor. We ran down the tunnel where the bus, heading for the plane, sat waiting. We had made it, and with no time to spare. We sat on the bus in pure amazement wondering how we cut it so close and what would’ve happened if we had missed our connecting flight. I’m pretty sure we both wanted to high-five each other, but we would remain calm and reserved as the bus taxied us to the plane. We were two short flights away from the adventure of a lifetime, and the madness was over. In a sick kind of way, I’m glad that we cut it that close because it made the final stretch that much more rewarding.
The flight to Puerto Montt was relatively short, compared to the eleven-plus-hour flight from Miami to Santiago, but it was not to be taken lightly. Luckily, I think I expelled all of my anxiety in the Santiago International Airport because the four-hour flight went by before I had a chance to blink. In fact, I enjoyed the flight because the sky was clear blue and we were able to gaze upon the massive rivers and snowcapped mountains below. The plane made a quick stop in Puerto Montt, to refuel and pick up some other passengers and before too long, we were off and headed for our final destination, Punta Arenas. All of the waiting, anxiety, and frustration was soon to be over, and our true journey was about to commence.
The Wanderer 