I Am Viktor Navorski, from Krakhozia

Remember Steven Spielberg's strange-yet-sweet film The Terminal with Tom Hanks?

Well, I (sort of) fulfilled one of my life-long dreams this past weekend by living in an airport (well, airport hotel) for two days - and not just any airport hotel - but one directly connected to the airport by walkway!

After the passport debacle that Cordelia and I endured on Sunday morning and afternoon in Lima, I decided to change the original flight I had scheduled for that night back to Tacna...especially since Cordelia's flight was delayed three hours and she would have been looking at nearly 9 hours in the airport alone. Therefore, my only option to fly back to Tacna was at 6pm Monday evening, the following day.

No big deal, I thought. Since it was Fiestas Patrias weekend (combined with the biggest Cuzco tourist rush of the year) and I knew that hotels and hostels in Lima would be horrifically crammed, I just planned on getting a room at the airport Ramada "Costal del Sol" hotel after helping Cordelia check-in for her flight. Once we had waited out the eternal line and obtained her boarding pass, we headed across the walkway to get me a room for the night. I just plopped down my credit card on the counter - after all, I had already resigned myself to paying a decent sum for the night - and a LAN Airlines official had told me that the only hotel was no more than $40 or $50 a night, a fair Peruvian price for a Ramada at the decidedly-lackluster Lima airport. Yet, one glance at a posted list of tarifas and I nearly fainted: STARTING at $350 per night for a SINGLE!? WHAT!?

After my ghastly reaction, the señorita immediately began to lower the price. "Ahh, I see where this is going," I thought to myself, as bargaining is a realm very dear to me after having spent considerable time in Peru. I played every card I could possibly think of, primarily pushing the "lost passport" angle for nearly 15 minutes until I had successfully bargained her down to a reasonable sum. I won't disclose exactly what this reasonable sum was, but let it suffice to say that the agreed-upon figure was far more manageable than the one originally quoted. Thank god for Peruvian bargaining culture and my ability to look poor and disheveled while traveling, for these have saved the day more than just this once.

And then as posted previously, after Cordelia's departure I slept like a baby, waking up at 9am to enjoy a wonderfully-decadent buffet breakfast complete with hot chocolate and cocoa puffs. A short aside: Sometimes I really love what Peruvian establishments offer as "typical gringo food": usually consisting of a bland sort of cocoa puffs and some variation on pancakes, or woefully under-scrambled eggs for breakfast; and the inevitable personal-size pizza for dinner. Is this really how American food culture has been communicated throughout the past decades? I suppose we don't have much of a distinct food culture to communicate, actually, as all seem to meld into one. Thoughts?

After this satisfying breakfast, I began to ponder the opportunities available to me at that very moment. I was living in an airport. I could go run errands, in my pajamas, in an airport. Oh boy. For those of you who know me well, this was quite an exciting realization.

I proceeded to run out into the airport, in my pajamas of course, to survey all there was to offer an aerofile and homesick gringo such as myself. Airport starbucks: check. Internet cafe: check. Duty free complete with tacky Peru memorabilia: check. Food court: check, with DUNKIN' DONUTS. Score. Large observation window from which to excitedly view takeoffs and landings of large aircraft: NO. What the hell of kind of airport doesn't have this? I bought a few necessary toiletries and returned, dejected, to my hotel room. My fantasy, living out of the airport for an entire night and day, had vanished into thin air with this discovery. For those of you who have seen The Terminal: No airport store job applications, no storage room card games with maintenance guys, no translating for unruly American travelers unable to speak Spanish, and most unfortunately, no Peruvian Catherine Zeta-Jones lookalike. Damn.

Still, I was able to post the most recent blog update from the internet cafe and send out postcards to our beloved Euro friends and family. Having returned to the hotel, I went for a badly-needed three mile jog on the treadmill and headed down to the spa. Ahhh, the spa. Just to note, this gray, rectangular monstrosity had turned out to be no Ramada, not even a Ramada on steroids, but more like a whited-out postmodern Montreal-style boutique hotel that had somehow obtained the gringo Ramada brand name probably to proffer some element of legitimacy, complete with a fully-stocked spa. I relished the eucalyptus steam sauna for a half-hour while alternating with five minute breaks in the Spanish rain shower, then took in all the glory that was the dry sauna. After that, a short stint in the jacuzzi and pool, and one of the best showers I've had in years. Wow, was I reluctant to return to Taltal at that point.

Yet with no pressing Viktor-Navorskian need to venture out of the airport to experience what the city offers, as I already knew what it had to offer (next to nothing), I was very content with waiting out the time before my flight to Tacna with a cold Cuzqueña in hand and a few gloriously-overpriced Dunkin' Donuts. Tack on a $10 GQ magazine and an entertaining collection of short stories, Brief Encounters with Che Guevara, and I was primed for departure by the time 5pm rolled around. Still, the homesickness, or at least that innate feeling of comfort that home offers, was burning stronger than ever, having been brought on by Cordelia's departure and my obsession with airport departure screens. Miami, AA flight 957: mmm, warmth, beach, sun, close to home. Houston, CO flight 1091: ooo, Texas, football, Sonic burger, cross-country trips, close to home. New York, LA Flight 518: we won't even go there, I couldn't even bring myself to think about just how quickly that 7.5 hour flight would take me home.

With a sense of reluctant yet faithful purpose and duty, I dragged myself over to gate 5 to await my flight to Tacna. Leaving the enchanting Peru, let alone this little portal to home and the rest of the world, was difficult, yet I boarded the plane content with the knowledge that I have so much English left to teach, so much Spanish left to learn, and so many people left to meet.

Vamos Amigos...onward and upward!