![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elfsBetween winning a trip to Antarctica and actually being in Antarctica is the grueling story of flying to Ushuaia, Argentina, where the Pursuit was currently making port. Ushuaia, “the city at the bottom of the world, is 12,427 kilometers from my home city of Seattle. London is only 7,700 kilometers away. Tokyo is 7,600 kilometers away. Equivalent flights would be to places like Melbourne, Australia, or Johannesburg, South Africa. It’s literally on the other side of the planet.
Our flight began early Saturday morning boarding a plane to Mexico City. I was genuinely surprised at how lax customs has become. Oh, the TSA is still a pain in the arse with your belt buckle but overall the amount of security theater was much less than I’d experienced before COVID. The flight itself on an Aeromexico 787 was a little short of five hours, wasn’t too traumatic, and the food was tasty and hot in a way US flights almost never have anymore. I masked until plane was in the air, at which point it exceeds the 5CH changeover for fresh air and risks are considered minimal, especially since I had gotten my COVID booster just a month earlier.
The “Your flight safety presentation today was brought to you by Volvo” notice was a bit disconcerting.
My travel laptop is a Surface Pro 6. I had cleaned it out before leaving and hadn’t put any movies onto it, so I was down to a very short list of films that didn’t really interest me. I spent most of the trip reading, as I had my e-reader with me and about 400 books on it are still listed as “unread.” I made quite a dent in my tsundoku list.
Mexico City From the Air
From the air, Mexico City looks like any city embedded in an agricultural region: core, sprawl, and then lots of parceled and enclosed farmland spreading out for kilometers in every direction.
It’s been a long time since I had last flown international. Long enough that Mastercard now takes care of the exchange rate automatically and traveller’s checks are something only people my age remember. The exotic cuisine of Mexico on display at the airport consisted of a Carl’s Junior, a Krispy Kreme, a Starbucks and a 7-11. I mentioned this to someone who was also traveling on the flight and he said, “Yeah, it wasn’t like this before NAFTA. NAFTA really gave the ‘international franchises’” – his voice heavy with sarcasm – “free rein, and this is the result.”
I wouldn’t have thought it was NAFTA.
Our flight from Mexico City to Buenos Aires was much longer, almost ten hours, but it was overnight and we’d sprung for the seats that reclined fully into beds, so we slept most of that. Omaha’s CPAP worked even with the plane’s power outlets, which helped her sleep as well as one can under those circumstances. The food was, for flight food, spectacular, especially the morning omelet. Only the coffee was boring.
In Buenos Aires, the Seabourn people more or less took over our lives. It turned out that the contributor of the prize package had been the president of Seabourn itself and that he had made it very clear that Omaha and I were very VIP. While there was a knot of five Seabourn people there to take in all the arrivals, there were four specific names on a separate list that received special handling, and we were one of those names. “You’re special,” we were told. “The director said something about a charity.”
Which was good to know, because that’s when disaster struck. AeroMexico had lost Omaha’s luggage.
She had a single change of clothes in her carry-on, a few toiletries, and not enough medication to make it through the whole trip. The Seabourn people assured us that they would do everything they can to find that bag, and in the meantime they would also help us find alternatives.
I don’t do well under these circumstances. Things are out of my control and I have no idea what’s going to happen next, and that’s when I start to break down. I went with Omaha to the hotel Seabourn had booked for us, the Alvear Palace. There were a lot of other people going on the cruise, but I hadn’t yet figured out how to talk to them and, under the circumstances, didn’t really want to.
Art Market at Carcono Park, Buenos Aires
The Alvear Palace hotel is a stunning place of marble, sandstone, oak, and brass. The Seabourn people whisked Omaha away to discuss the luggage and medication issue, and afterward we were free to wander the city. We found a local pizza place named El Continental, walked around the Recoleta Cemetery where Eve Peron (among many others) is buried, and visited a pop-up artisan market in Carcono Park. Artisan markets are the exactly the same the world over, with tsotchkes and such for sale that wouldn’t have looked out of place in Pike Place Market or the Seattle University District Street Fair.
I didn’t sleep well that night. I’m not even sure I slept at all. Fitbit says I got maybe seven hours of sleep, I was so anxious about the luggage and the medication. Omaha took charge and, frankly, I felt a little bullied about being hauled along by her whirlwind as she demanded I get onto the bus to the airport and the plane down to Ushuaia.
The ride to the airport included a bit of travelogue about Buenos Aries, including a massive, beautiful but broken mobile of a robotic flower, and a statue of Christopher Columbus gazing eastward while his victims slump and writhe at the base of his plinth. I like to think he’s gazing eastward toward the source of his power and approval, the kings of Spain.
![]()
A Furry Airplane
I was miserable on the flight, even if the airplane did have a cute fox on the tail. I almost didn’t get onto the plane, instead thinking hard that I could just head over to the International section and book a flight home. But I just couldn’t do that, and so I ended up in Ushuaia. It’s a nice, fairly large town that does exactly two things: be the hub for the Antarctic tourist business, and support the Argentine Navy’s southernmost base of operations.
The Seabourn people let us onto the Pursuit, and told us three things: they hadn’t found the bag, they were trying to find a supply of Omaha’s medication, there was a seamstress on board who could provide her with some clothes, and when this happens the ship provides overnight laundry service.
With barely an hour until the gangplank was pulled and we would have to abandon the trip entirely, someone found us and said, “We found your medication.” A pharmacy at the north end of city had it, and it would be on board before we pulled out.
I was still wrung out. I’d gotten less than nine hours of sleep in the past 60. I don’t remember what I had for dinner, or what else happened that day. I went to bed and passed out.
Our flight began early Saturday morning boarding a plane to Mexico City. I was genuinely surprised at how lax customs has become. Oh, the TSA is still a pain in the arse with your belt buckle but overall the amount of security theater was much less than I’d experienced before COVID. The flight itself on an Aeromexico 787 was a little short of five hours, wasn’t too traumatic, and the food was tasty and hot in a way US flights almost never have anymore. I masked until plane was in the air, at which point it exceeds the 5CH changeover for fresh air and risks are considered minimal, especially since I had gotten my COVID booster just a month earlier.
The “Your flight safety presentation today was brought to you by Volvo” notice was a bit disconcerting.
My travel laptop is a Surface Pro 6. I had cleaned it out before leaving and hadn’t put any movies onto it, so I was down to a very short list of films that didn’t really interest me. I spent most of the trip reading, as I had my e-reader with me and about 400 books on it are still listed as “unread.” I made quite a dent in my tsundoku list.
Mexico City From the Air
From the air, Mexico City looks like any city embedded in an agricultural region: core, sprawl, and then lots of parceled and enclosed farmland spreading out for kilometers in every direction.
It’s been a long time since I had last flown international. Long enough that Mastercard now takes care of the exchange rate automatically and traveller’s checks are something only people my age remember. The exotic cuisine of Mexico on display at the airport consisted of a Carl’s Junior, a Krispy Kreme, a Starbucks and a 7-11. I mentioned this to someone who was also traveling on the flight and he said, “Yeah, it wasn’t like this before NAFTA. NAFTA really gave the ‘international franchises’” – his voice heavy with sarcasm – “free rein, and this is the result.”
I wouldn’t have thought it was NAFTA.
Our flight from Mexico City to Buenos Aires was much longer, almost ten hours, but it was overnight and we’d sprung for the seats that reclined fully into beds, so we slept most of that. Omaha’s CPAP worked even with the plane’s power outlets, which helped her sleep as well as one can under those circumstances. The food was, for flight food, spectacular, especially the morning omelet. Only the coffee was boring.
In Buenos Aires, the Seabourn people more or less took over our lives. It turned out that the contributor of the prize package had been the president of Seabourn itself and that he had made it very clear that Omaha and I were very VIP. While there was a knot of five Seabourn people there to take in all the arrivals, there were four specific names on a separate list that received special handling, and we were one of those names. “You’re special,” we were told. “The director said something about a charity.”
Which was good to know, because that’s when disaster struck. AeroMexico had lost Omaha’s luggage.
She had a single change of clothes in her carry-on, a few toiletries, and not enough medication to make it through the whole trip. The Seabourn people assured us that they would do everything they can to find that bag, and in the meantime they would also help us find alternatives.
I don’t do well under these circumstances. Things are out of my control and I have no idea what’s going to happen next, and that’s when I start to break down. I went with Omaha to the hotel Seabourn had booked for us, the Alvear Palace. There were a lot of other people going on the cruise, but I hadn’t yet figured out how to talk to them and, under the circumstances, didn’t really want to.
Art Market at Carcono Park, Buenos Aires
The Alvear Palace hotel is a stunning place of marble, sandstone, oak, and brass. The Seabourn people whisked Omaha away to discuss the luggage and medication issue, and afterward we were free to wander the city. We found a local pizza place named El Continental, walked around the Recoleta Cemetery where Eve Peron (among many others) is buried, and visited a pop-up artisan market in Carcono Park. Artisan markets are the exactly the same the world over, with tsotchkes and such for sale that wouldn’t have looked out of place in Pike Place Market or the Seattle University District Street Fair.
I didn’t sleep well that night. I’m not even sure I slept at all. Fitbit says I got maybe seven hours of sleep, I was so anxious about the luggage and the medication. Omaha took charge and, frankly, I felt a little bullied about being hauled along by her whirlwind as she demanded I get onto the bus to the airport and the plane down to Ushuaia.
The ride to the airport included a bit of travelogue about Buenos Aries, including a massive, beautiful but broken mobile of a robotic flower, and a statue of Christopher Columbus gazing eastward while his victims slump and writhe at the base of his plinth. I like to think he’s gazing eastward toward the source of his power and approval, the kings of Spain.
A Furry Airplane
I was miserable on the flight, even if the airplane did have a cute fox on the tail. I almost didn’t get onto the plane, instead thinking hard that I could just head over to the International section and book a flight home. But I just couldn’t do that, and so I ended up in Ushuaia. It’s a nice, fairly large town that does exactly two things: be the hub for the Antarctic tourist business, and support the Argentine Navy’s southernmost base of operations.
The Seabourn people let us onto the Pursuit, and told us three things: they hadn’t found the bag, they were trying to find a supply of Omaha’s medication, there was a seamstress on board who could provide her with some clothes, and when this happens the ship provides overnight laundry service.
With barely an hour until the gangplank was pulled and we would have to abandon the trip entirely, someone found us and said, “We found your medication.” A pharmacy at the north end of city had it, and it would be on board before we pulled out.
I was still wrung out. I’d gotten less than nine hours of sleep in the past 60. I don’t remember what I had for dinner, or what else happened that day. I went to bed and passed out.
no subject
Date: 2024-03-06 12:59 am (UTC)I saw your commentary of the situation on BlueSky and wasn't sure what was going on, but decided not to ask as I didn't want to add anything else to your plate by asking.