Tampa, FL to Rome, Italy

And we’re off! (Er… *I’m* off, anyway.)

Jojo dropped me off at the TPA airport, where my flight left at promptly one hour late. This was allegedly due to inclement weather, although it was 80 and sunny in Tampa and we never encountered a drop of rain. In any case, I wasn’t worried about the delay since I had a 3-hour layover in NYC-JFK anyway.

Or so I thought.

I was juuuuust about to hand over my ticket and board the plane when I heard an announcement seeking volunteers to take the next flight. I stopped texting Lacey and hung up with J (because, yanno, my crackberry is glued to my ears/fingers) and went to check out the situation.

The plane is oversold by 8+ tickets. The LED marquee keeps flashing “Best Deals, Guaranteed!” (An actual seat, however… not so much, apparently.)

The guy at the counter (Freddie, if you’re taking notes) says he’ll offer $400 flight credit and a pair of meal vouchers if I’m willing to take the 9pm flight instead of the 5pm flight. Plus, he says, AlItalia serves way better food. Mmmmm, better food, you say? No problem.

(Except, of course, there’s always a problem…)

I end up waiting in line at the counter until about 6:30 before I got my new ticket to Rome via AlItalia instead of Delta. And then I had to exit the airport, walk down the street with my luggage, enter a different terminal, wait in line to go through security again, only to discover that the new ticket they printed me != boarding pass, and I have to go check in for my new flight through AlItalia. Oh, and the bag I had checked in Tampa is still on the plane that already left for Rome…

The folks over at AlItalia were super nice, particularly when they informed me that the 9pm flight had been delayed until 11:50pm (later changed to 10:50pm). This was not as sparkly as 9pm. Being good sorts, they got me on a completely different flight, which was scheduled to board in… 10 minutes. (Remember the part where I’m still not through airport security?)

Happy to be arriving just a couple hours later than my original flight (assuming I make it through security on time) I tear through the checkpoint as fast as possible and sprint toward my gate when I remember–oh yes. My meal vouchers. Each worth a hefty $7.

There’s no time to go to a restaurant, so I stop by the first shop I pass and try to buy a horseshoe travel pillow. No dice. Food only. Fine. I end up buying a bottle of water and 5 packs of gum. They weren’t thrilled about it (why do they *care* in what manner I choose to waste my food vouchers??) but after some insistence that gum was surely a foodstuff, I’m once again off for the gate.

Natch, the plane is running late. An hour late. And then another hour on the tarmac because we were cleared #24 in line for takeoff. Good times. Please stay seated with your seatbelt fastened. Indefinitely.

At long last, however, we were on our way! Yay! I was seated next to a super-friendly Italian guy who gave me lots of random pointers and never laughed at my bad Italian, except when I said “ho spegnuto” instead of “ho spento”. (Stupid irregular past participles! He knew what I meant!!!)

After much shenanigans, we arrive in Rome, safe and sound.

I head to the AlItalia counter to inquire after my luggage. They direct me to the Delta counter. The Delta folks direct me back to the AlItalia counter. Right when my head was about to explode calculating how much it was going to cost me to replace everything in that bag, one of the other volunteer-bump passengers takes pity on me and shows me to the storage room between the two offices where all the orphaned bags are kept.

Thanks, I tell him. It helps to speak the language, he replies.

(I cannot tell you how much that little bit of snark irked me. I *know* it helps to speak the language. I’m here to learn Italian, after all. I even asked after my bag in Italian. However, no level of fluency would’ve made me ask, “Is there a secret hidden door with no signage whatsover that might be hiding a cache of lost or forgotten bags?” Especially since they’d've mentioned it if they realized such a thing existed. But anyway. Settle down, E.)

Since we were (bizarrely) not required to fill out any customs forms on the plane, I anticipated some form-signing action in the airport or at least a barrage of questions (why are you here? how long are you staying?) from the customs folks.

Nothing. Not even a “buon giorno”. Just an outstretched hand for the passport, a quick stamp, and off you go. Good for speed, and all, but… weird?

Have you ever been bumped from a flight, voluntarily or involuntarily? If you’ve flown internationally before, are you used to filling out customs forms or breezing right on through?

Tags: airplanes, airports, travel tips

From Spain to Germany

This morning I woke up, scarfed down a croissant (OK, two croissants), snapped a photo of the lovely construction view from my balcony, and headed for the Madrid airport. The airport is massive. I was in Terminal 4, which has sections A through K (maybe more, I was in J so that’s as far as I went) and each letter has a slew of… I don’t know the word. Every time I come to Europe, I forget English. A slew of… places where you board a plane. (Gates?)

Anyway, I bought my ticket online from home. I unfold my printout from the web site confirmation and the printout of the emailed e-ticket, and suddenly I happen to notice that both items, in big, bold, capital letters, say: “Credit Card used in this purchase MUST BE PRESENTED in order to receive boarding pass and board flight.”

Oops. I totally didn’t bring that card. It charges me massive international fees for every overseas transaction (I found this out the hard way last year, once I came home and saw my account statements) so I left it at home. Naturally, I need to board this airline 4 different times… <>

So, I go to the ticketing counter, full of trepidation, but the guy serving me is so blessedly clueless, he doesn’t even ask about it. He did ask whether I preferred window or aisle, I said window, he said window, and printed me a ticket for aisle. I can only hope to have similar help the next 3 times!

The plane ride was uneventful, for the most part. Air Iberia gives out free newspapers, which was cool, but you have to pay for your own food and drink if you want water and peanuts. (They do have other offerings… It’s a whole food cart that comes down the aisle at least twice.) Being both poor and cheap, I just sat there, reading my paper, and chewed a piece of gum.

In this paper (which, bizarrely, used *other* newspaper articles as its primary sources) there was an article about how 1 out of every 10 British 20-somethings and 1 out of every 20 older British adults are eager to have credit card chips implanted under their skin so they don’t have to mess with a purse/wallet and the potential for identity theft and pickpocketing. According to El Universal (the paper), already testing has been underway for some time, using dogs and cats and horses. (Who, I’m sure, are big shoppers and appreciate the experiment.)

Once I arrived in Frankfurt, I zipped through to baggage claim (intra-EU flights don’t have to go through customs, although–also bizarrely–this was set up as honor system, with one line for people going through customs and the other for people not wanting to go through customs) and met up with Erin. Yay!

We drove the ~1 hour south to Kaiserslautern (known by the locals as K-town) near the Rammstein Air Force Base. I dropped off my luggage in Erin’s spare room, and we wandered around K-town for a couple hours, sightseeing and just generally hanging out. We rounded out the night in a restaurant called Himalaya (nothing says Germany quite like Indian food!) where I got saag paneer (my favorite) and Erin got what the menu described as “typical Nepali chicken”. We have no idea what that means, but she said it was delicious. So there you go.

Tags: airplanes, airports, food, random facts & history, shopping

International Travel (& Madrid!)

Since I know it’s the main question on everyone’s mind, here’s the answer you’ve all been waiting for: Yes, I was able to take Purell on the airplane.

The guy in front of me in the security line got searched and they confiscated his aloe vera and inspected a bunch of other things, but I had no problems.

So now I’m on the plane from Tampa to JFK (NYC). My ticket said plain old Delta, but this was a “Song” plane, with the nice seats and adjustable individual movie screens and in-flight trivia. (I had 100% accuracy for three whole questions and then I missed the next four or five. Shoulda quit when I was ahead.)

The flight attendants head down the aisle with the drink cart, selling pink lemonade and pink martinis in honor of Breast Cancer Awareness month. Just as they are about to approach my row, this girl staggers up the aisle. (Yes, staggers.) My first thought was maybe she’d had a pink martini too many, because she had that I-can-barely-stand-up drunken gait. Just as she reached my aisle, she collapsed and pitched forward. The flight attendants jerked the drink cart backward so that she didn’t crack her head against the metal corners, and the girl tumbled to the ground unconscious. When they couldn’t get her to respond, they picked up the intercom phone (also right in front of me) and asked for any medical personnel to come forward. That brought a cattle-herd of rubberneckers more than anything, but there were a few legitimate nurses and EMTs that tried to help her. Another flight attendant ran for the oxygen, and that finally revived the girl. So then the flight attendants bumped the people in the row across from me up to first class so that they could lay the girl down flat. She stayed there the rest of the flight. (And me? No drinks, and no first class. <<sob>>)

Once I reached the JFK Airport, I wandered around looking for my gate. The flight attendant gave me a vague “that way” gesture when I asked, and the gate did turn out to be that way… Just down about a mile and a half. Along the way, I started noticing dollar massage chairs peppering the terminals. I made it about halfway down the hall before I caved and plopped onto a chair. (I didn’t give $1. I gave $5. Why have 3 minutes of massage when you can have 15??) The massage chairs are situated in 2 sets of 2, and my expression must have been particularly relaxed (or blissful) because people would look at the empty chair, look at me in my chair, and then fish in their wallet/purse for change. I should’ve got commission for that.

After a lovely 3.5 hour layover <<eye rolling>> I finally get on the plane for Madrid. Let me just say that I was not impressed. The seats were close and uncomfortable, we were too far to one side to see the single TV screen for our cabin (which at least worked, even if I couldn’t see it… Of the other 4 screens throughout the plane, 1 was too orangey, 1 was too greenish, 1 flickered in and out of black & white, and the other just did some red wavy lava-lamp-ish thing.) Oh, and there was no adjustable headrest. Or eye masks. Oh, and the light switches were wired wrong on our seats, so when I hit the light bulb button on my armrest, he was hit with the spotlight, and vice versa. Fun fun. (Can you *feel* the bitterness???)

Pretty much the only interesting thing that happened on that leg of the flight was when I almost didn’t get a customs form. I reached for it and the flight attendant jerked it away and said, “Españoles no.” (Not for Spaniards.) Oh, and the guy next to me was an Iranian New Yorker who ordered kosher food. For breakfast they brought both of us ham & cheese croissants. (Obviously neither kosher nor vegetarian.) They did realize their mistake before we started screaming in horror (although it was close: I’d unwrapped mine and he’d almost taken a bite) and gave us shiny new breakfasts. (Cold bagels and OJ.)

And then, THEN, I finally land in Madrid! Yay! My favorite city in maybe the whole world! (I say maybe since I haven’t actually been in every city in the world. I’m not even sure such a feat would be possible.) I check in to my room (which won’t be ready until 1pm although I was free to leave my bags, which I did) and head outside. My hotel is in the Puerta del Sol, right across from a vegetarian restaurant (good!) and major construction (bad!).

Right now it’s siesta time, and I’m sitting on my bed with my laptop listening to the calm, soothing sounds of jackhammers in concrete and bulldozers beeping to back up. I hope this doesn’t go on during the night… Yuck.

So, what was that smack I was talking about how cold it might be here? When I walked outside, it was 23C, or about 79F. I was wearing layers. First thing I did (okay, third, since the first two were Hit the ATM and Buy a Metro Ticket) was take off my fleece sweatshirt. The weather is unbelievable right now. Warm, sunny, beautiful. Since I had some time to kill (I checked in at 10am) I headed down Calle Arenal to Retiro Park, a sprawling mass of trees and flowers and playgrounds and statues and lakes and benches and fountains. Even one of the Devil, as the angel falling from the skies to the waiting demons below. Madrid claims it’s the only park in the world with a fountain depicting good old Lucifer. (No one has ever disputed this claim, so it may well be true.)

OK, till next time!

~ERiCA

Tags: airplanes, airports

Washington, D.C.

Our 9 day adventure begins! My younger brothers and I are off…

05:00 Wakey, wakey!

Joy of joys, we got to wake up at 5am this morning. Well, most of us did. Everyone except Andy. He was already up – he had to work the night shift and technically was supposed to be there until 6… but he cut out at breaktime so he could come home and join the fun.

06:00 On the road

We piled into the van – my brothers (Andy & Rob), my parents, and I, and we hit the road for Chicago.

07:00 Chicago Skyway

Because the Dan Ryan Expressway was under construction, we had to use some creative avoidance tactics.

08:00 Midway Airport

We arrived about 4 hours early (yikes!) and discovered that the food court was past the security check-in, so my parents (who, like us, had not yet breakfasted) had to turn around and go home without eating with us.

09:00 Haray Carey’s

Andy, Rob and I grabbed some grub at Haray Carey’s. I opted to drink water instead of coffee, planning to hit Starbucks after we ate.

10:00 Waiting at the Terminal

At Starbucks, Andy and Rob ordered the Chocolate Creme Frappucinos and I ordered a Caramel Latte. They were out of both Chocolate and Caramel, which meant *we* were out of luck. We plopped into some seats at the terminal next to an outlet, so I could plug in my laptop and get some work done. Some guy walked by and gave me a hard time about it, but it was all in hillbonics, so we’re not really sure what he said. <>

11:00 – 14:00 Plane

The plane ride was much less eventful than I had feared, except for the landing, which freaked out not only the passengers but also the flight crew and the pilot himself, who joked, “Well!… *That* was easy.” when we clattered onto the runway.

14:00-19:00 Intro to D.C.

We find our hotel (the Beacon, on 17th street, walking distance from the White House) and wander around the city, checking out the White House, the Washington Monument, and the World War II Memorial. We also ate some pizza at Uno’s (a D.C. staple… hahaha) We ordered the Muchos Nachos appetizer (which, when they say muchos, they’re not kidding) not realizing it came with meat. Even though it was completely our fault (for being illiterate and not reading the menu more closely) they ran right back and whipped up a veggie version. We were stuffed before the pizza even came.

ANDY QUOTE: “Well, so far this vacation is turning out terrible. Too many nachos!!!”

20:00-23:30 D.C. Night Tour

We left Union Station for a 3+ hour night tour and it turned out to be a great time. Our tour guide was animated and knowledgeable and we only got lost once. (”We” meaning Andy, Rob and I, not the tour guide. He was a D.C. native who’d given these tours twice a week for 21 years.)

Tags: airplanes, airports, food, lost

Madrid, Spain to Paris, France

I woke up, did my last load of laundry for a while, packed my bags, and boarded the bus for the airport. At the airport, my bags were too heavy, so I had to pay a fee, but what do you do when you’ve got all your stuff with you and you’re on your way to Paris.

Our flight took off about 40 minutes late, so we arrived a good half hour after planned. We picked up our luggage and bussed to our hotel: Novotel in La Defense, the very last stop on metro line yellow one, and (we were to learn later) technically not within Paris proper.

The first adventure of the day was discovering that I had someone I didn’t know for a roomate, and that the hotel rooms had a single king size bed, so we would be sharing.

I found Alison, and we were starving since the airline didn’t serve vegetarian meals, so we headed out to find some grub.

We took the Metro, and ended up next to a mother and her daughter. The little girl asked us, “Are you Americans?” and before we could answer, the mother said, “Isn’t it obvious?” (!!!)

Ali and I got off the Metro at the CDG exit (not the airport, but the exit) and when we walked up the stairs to street level, we were instantly rewarded with a view of the Arc de Triomphe. We walked around looking for a cafe, and we ran into Bryan, Paula, and Lindsay. (Weird how I keep running into people I know in such large cities. I *never* randomly run into people I know back in Tampa!)

We found a cafe and ordered some food and some water. We downed the first carafe in no time, and I taught Alison how to say “more water, please” so she could ask for it when the waiter returned. (She cracked me up by repeating it over and over.)

Once we sated our hunger a bit (I got salad and 4 fresh cheeses, none of which I recognized, all of which were good) we explored the Arc de Triomphe and had fun trying to find the perfect spot for a photograph.

All this photography worked up an appetite (yes, *again*) and we realized what we REALLY needed were some crepes. We found outdoor seating at a cafe on Champs Elysees and ordered up the most delicious crepes I’ve ever had. They were topped with ice cream and chocolate syrup! (Probably Nutella–Paris is huge on Nutella.)

Something funny: there are lots of ads in the metro stops for McDonald’s, but here it’s called McDo.

Tags: airplanes, airports, food

Paris, France to Málaga, Spain

Here I am on the last flight of this seemingly never-ending day. I am dead tired and my head is vaguely pounding. On the flight from JFK to CDG (Paris, Charles de Gaulle) I had an aisle seat in the center, so unfortunately I did not get to look out the window at Paris getting closer. However, I have a window seat on this flight, so I´ll get to watch Paris disappear and Málaga appear!

The CDG airport does not have food once you are through security for international flights. Eat first, or have plenty of coin Euros for the vending machines. I went through customs (who, disappointingly, did not stamp my passport neither arriving nor leaving), disdainfully passed by a McDonalds, went through security, and headed to my gate.

On the previous plane, at first I sat on the wrong side of the aisle. (I make mistakes at least once a year.) I blame it on the soporific effects of Dramamine and lack of sleep. I sat next to two youngish black women from France. I turned to the one next to me and asked (in French), “So, where in France are you from?”

She blinked and responded (in French), “I´m sorry, I don´t speak English. Could you ask me again in French?”

Well! This was a serious blow to my French self-confidence, let me tell you. What I *wanted* to do was fall into the bottomless pit I was hoping would appear any moment to swallow me whole. But since that failed to hapen (and since she´d asked so nicely) I tried again, this time enunciating as clearly as I could. “Where. In France. Do you. Live?”

This time, she smiled and answered, “Oh! In Paris.”

I returned the smile, told her it was my first visit, and retreated to my proper seat, resolving not to poison the air any more with my apparently incomprehensible French accent.

Tired as I was, I couldn’t seem to fall asleep. That´s when I started ordering the wine. (Come on! Free alcohol is one of the joys of an eight hour international flight, and besides, it comes with every snack/meal just like Diet Coke.)

After I was halfway throught the second bottle (There´s only one serving in each bottle. Really.) I was totally knocked out for a good hour or two. I kept waking up because they kept showing up to feed us. First, a snack (pretzels and wine) then dinner (there was no vegetarian option because the school forgot to forward the information, but they did come back around to give me another bread roll).

This morning (aka midnight EST) they fed us breakfast – some kind of pastry, peach yogurt (Dannon la créme), coffee and OJ. (No wine for me, although the guy in the row in front of me got a Budweiser, breakfast of champions.)

Tags: airplanes, airports, lost in translation, wine

International Flight

Here I am on Song, Delta’s new airline branch. So far, I’m favorably impressed. The seats are colorful and comfortable, with TV screens on every seatback, and I absolutely love the flight attendant uniforms. My first thought when I saw them was, “I want to be a Song flight attendant so I can wear that outfit!”

I got to the airport and through security and made a beeline for the Starbucks, where the slowest family in the world was in front of me ordering milk and breakfasts for themselves and all four of their kids. (A lot of eye-rolling went through the ever-growing line. It’s a coffee stand, not a Waffle House, for pete’s sake.) The woman next to me in line glared at them for 10 straight minutes (without them even noticing) then muttered darkly to her daughter: “Looks like there’s gonna be a smackdown at Starbucks.”

My first adventure of the day was at check-in. The orientation documents I received said that the suitcase had a maximum weight of 75 pounds. This may be, but apparently anything over 50 gets an automatic $25 fee, and mine weighed in around 55. The joys of travel…

The best thing about the Song flight from Tampa to JFK (NYC) was that I was unbeatable for several rounds of the Trivia game. (Yeah baby! The winner is: Erica in 15A!) That is, until Mike in 6B beat me by just a few points. Geek. But I am still listed as #3 overall in my particular airplane’s all-time top 10! (Song is so new that this probably doesn’t mean much, but let me have a moment of pride.)

My second adventure was when I arrived at the JFK airport. I had a massive 4 1/2 hour layover, so I wandered around the tiny terminal about 75 times before I caved and checked out the massage parlor. (Yes, there’s a massage parlor in the airport. I don’t know either.) My massage therapist was a tiny woman from Malasia. I have never had an asian massage before this day, and since I just signed up for what sounded like an ordinary back massage, I was in for a surprise.

My first surprise was that the concept of privacy was utterly foreign to her. As I was undressing, she came in and out of the room multiple times, the last of which I was stark naked. Then, I lay face down on the massage table and the next thing I know, she jumps on my back! At first I had my misgivings about her crawling around on my back, kneading my muscles with her elbows and knees. But from the first swirl of her knee, my spinal column loudly clicked into place, right up the line. (Kinda makes you wonder – who was the first person to dream up this kind of massage?)

Then she ran out of the room. I had no idea why this was – maybe I have a frightening back? The next thing I know, she bursts back into the room and tosses a scalding hot wet towel on my bare back, then leaps back on top of me for more knee-kneading.

To say I was a bit surprised would be a big understatement.

She followed up the massage with random hand gestures, which I completley misunderstood until she spontaneously french-braided my hair. (Apparently, I was a wreck.)

I left a good tip–she totally deserved it. After all, I was just walking past and she used her powers of persuasion (albeit in broken English) to hustle me in to the most bizarre yet entertaining massage of my life. (Oh, and relaxing too. Really.)

Tags: airplanes, airports, lost in translation

Nuevo Arenal, Costa Rica to Tampa, FL

It’s all fun and games until someone gets bit by a scorpion.

But more on this later. First, we woke to yet another gorgeous day. We were on our own for breakfast, so I ate yogurt with granola and nibbled on some fruit, and Bri ate macadamia nuts and fresh pineapple. After the delicious breakfast feasts that Lidieth prepares, this didn’t seem like much, so we headed down to the Lajas Restaurante for more food. Our server had a bird perched on his finger, and we were able to pet it before it eventually flew off.

We ran into Elkin and Juan (aka Gilligan) at Lajas and were able to say goodbye, which was nice. Everybody asked us about the fiesta and were impressed by the amount of tamales and picadillos consumed by Brian. We ordered cheese omelettes and coffee and then headed off toward La Fortuna to check out Tabacón.

We knew Tabacón was the more expensive of the resorts, but I’d heard such great things about it that I really wanted to go there. Bri complained from the car to the reception, making comments like “My cutoff is $20. If it’s more than $20, we’re not going.” Naturally, it was $29. After much huffing, puffing and eye-rolling, Bri finally acquiesed and agreed to give it a try despite the higher price. He kept up a muttered stream of displeasure about it until we left the reception area and got our first view of the actual resort.

His mouth snapped shut, and I think mine dropped wide open. Tabacón is absolutely amazing. It is lush and green, with trees and flowers everywhere, and filled with hot springs, pools, and waterfalls. We walked into and behind a waterfall, and sat on the edge of the rocks with the rushing water falling on our heads.

We relaxed in the pools filled with running water from the hot springs, watching the birds flying by, smelling the exotic flowers, and listening to the water flow across the rocks. I think Bri put it best when he turned to me wide-eyed and said, “It’s hard to believe that all this is *real*!”

Lest you be confused, let me explain what I mean when I say “pool”. By pool, I do not mean a rectangular, chlorinated cement monstrosity. Oh no. By “pool” (which I now see to be a wholly inadequate word,) I mean rivers of hot water flowing down the side of the volcano, streams of which fill up miniature lakes, naturally constructed out of the banks of the rivers and outlined with large gray and black stones, made smooth by the constantly running water. By “pools”, I do not mean seperate, artificially constructed areas. Instead, everything is beautiful, natural, and organic, and layered one on the other with mini waterfalls, and connected throughout the resort by the many hot springs flowing through it.

We also heard what we thought was thunder (although there was not a cloud in the sky and it never rained) and we came to learn later that it was actually the rumbling of the volcano.

We relaxed in the water, Bri with pina coladas and I with strawberry daquiris. I stopped by one of the spa huts and ordered a massage. It was very funny in a way, because typically when a massage is given (at least in the States) some sort of relaxation soundtrack is playing in the background, such as Running Water or Babbling Brook or Chirping Birds, and there’s often candles, incense or scented oils. And here I was, the sunlight on my body, in the middle of the rainforest, underneath a real canopy of trees, along side real waterfalls, with the scent of tropical flowers in the breeze, and birds in the trees. It was amazing.

Later that night, when we finally tore ourselves away from Tabacón, we drove back to the house, hit the shower, then went to say goodbye to Lidieth at her house. Her husband was home from working 10 days straight in Cañas, so we got to meet him as well. Her grandkids, aged 2 and 4, were on the floor with dolls on their backs, being toros at a rodeo, and bucking wildly until the doll flew off. Maria, the youngest, actually went so far as to “gore” her doll with her head once it fell to the ground, which cracked up Bri and I. We used to play cops and robbers, and now I’m thinking it would’ve been more fun to play toro.

Afterwards, we went to Tramontti’s for pizza (everywhere has pizza) with Michelle and Luis, which culminated in a lot of cutting up and giggling like teenagers.

But what about the scorpion, you say? It sounds like the evening is winding down, and so far everyone is hale and hearty, you say? Patience. This is exactly when it happened. Me, seated at the table, eating pesto pasta, talking, laughing. Suddenly something bit me on the hand. Was it a scorpion? To be honest, I can’t swear what it was. I didn’t actually see the bite happen, although believe me, I felt it. So it could have been a scorpion, or one of those fabulous giant spiders, or even the Loch Ness monster for all I know. (According to Brian, there is a similar creature living at the bottom of Lake Arenal.)

What I *do* know is that my finger hurt like hell, by the time we got back to the house it had swollen grotesquely, and by the time I woke up at 5:00 am the next morning, my entire hand had bloated up like a blowfish.

I was a bit concerned by this unexpected turn of events.

We had a plane to catch and I had a stick shift to drive, so there was nothing to do but buck up and bear it until we got back to the States. Bri loaded up the car and I showed my impromptu boxing mitt to Alex, who was outside cleaning the pool. (Yes, as the crack of dawn. Maybe he doesn’t sleep.) He took one look at it and said it looked like an alacrán bite, and would probably be swollen for a few days. I nodded sagely, then came back inside to look up alacrán in my dictionary, since I hadn’t heard that one before. As you have no doubt already surmised, alacrán = scorpion.

Much to my dismay, my hand continued to swell, and when we arrived at the Liberia International Airport, I got a bag of ice which I carried with me the rest of the trip, refilling as needed. The flight attendants were all very freaked out by the massive size of my hand, and were more than happy to bring me frequent bags of new ice.

Once we landed in Orlando (not for the first time wishing we’d paid the higher price and flown out of Tampa) lightning began streaking down the sky, thunder rang out over head, and rain began pouring down. It is against federal aircraft guidelines to allow passengers to deplane in a lightning storm, so although we were on the ground, we were stuck in the plane for another hour and a half.

When we finally escaped the plane, it was 11pm or so. We didn’t make it back to the house until 1:00 am. I was barely through the door when I hit the bed and fell instantly asleep.

Tuesday morning I went to the doctor, who instantly gave me an epinephrine shot, something akin to a liter of Benadryl, and kept me for observation. He said next time not to wait so long (hopefully there is no next time) and that I should go to an allergist and get an epi-pen to carry with me because all further such bites would provoke steadily worse reactions and without an epinephrine shot, I could suffer cardiac arrest and die.

Luckily, this time I survived with my life intact, and although my hand is still Frankenstein-esque, it is no longer the size of a catcher’s mitt and I am finally able to type again, albeit not as rapidly as usual.

(Hey, Erica, how was your trip? Oh, you know, a scorpion bit me and my hand looks like an alien is gestating inside.)

Nonetheless, it was an absolutely fantastic trip and I cannot wait to return!

Tags: airplanes, food, road trip