As I mentioned in an earlier blog, “Behind the Curtain” the downside of traveling is always the getting there and returning. It hasn’t always been so bad. I can remember when I first started flying how exciting it was, but believe me the charm of it all has long passed. Part of the problem lies with me, I know, because I always take too many clothes, resulting in much too heavy luggage and a couple of carry-ons that if measured would never make the cut. The other problem is that I am usually seated in the back, crammed in next to some extra large person with bad breath.

Fortunately on my trip to Quito, I was upgraded to business class on both the outbound and inbound flights, which made it much more pleasurable, except for a few glitches. The first problem arose about mid-way into the trip when I got up to stretch and go to the restroom—a major bad timing decision. As I opened the door to exit the bathroom, a rather elderly man lay sprawled in the aisle preventing me from moving any further. I stood helplessly, looking down at him as the flight attendant began asking for a doctor on the plane.

Another woman who I assumed was his wife or daughter crowded in next to me. Although I am very proud to have a Ph.D., I have enough sense to never use the title “Dr.” on an airplane ticket for just this reason. How embarrassing it would be to be asked and have to say, “Duh, I’m not that kind of doctor,” which began my thinking about how attendants know if someone is a real physician.  I didn’t see them check any credentials or ask questions of the man who answered the call for a doctor. He just appeared from somewhere in the middle of the airplane in his dirty, worn trousers and dingy shirt and proceeded to look as confused as the old man lying on the floor.

The attendant brought oxygen and helped the “doctor” apply the mask. By this time, the attendant began asking the woman standing next to me questions about the older gentleman’s medical history and prescriptions.  She just kept saying, “He has prostate problems” over and over. I wanted to say, “Lady, I don’t think that’s the problem, but since I am not that kind of doctor and really didn’t know, I kept really quiet—which wasn’t easy.

How I wanted to disappear back to my seat, but as long as he was “prostrate,” I couldn’t. Finally, I mustered the courage to ask her if she was his wife and she nodded yes, quickly adding in a more frustrated than worried tone, “And he needs to be okay because we are traveling in the Galapagos for the next two weeks.” Again, I was silent, but couldn’t help but think maybe she should have thought about that when she married the ole codger who was at least 25 years older than her.

After about 30 minutes of standing in the very area where the captain warns passengers not to “congregate,” I was able to squeeze by as the attendants lifted the sick man to the jump seat. Moving quickly and in darkness, I didn’t see the two pillows in the floor and couldn’t catch myself as my foot tangled and I went hurling forward—making the second person to be on the airplane floor in less than an hour. But I was instantly up and in my seat! Within ten minutes the old man was back in his place across the aisle, snoring blissfully as I rubbed my throbbing knee.

The return trip was less eventful although I arrived at the airport at 4:30 a.m. only to be told the plane had not arrived the night before due to fog and that we would be leaving much later—2:15 p.m. I arrived home at 11:45 that night. I love flying!!!!

Today is my last day in The Galapagos, and I am seeing one more island before I clean up at the Hotel Red Booby and go the “journey” back to the Baltra airport. Although many people, after arriving by air, explore the islands strictly by boat, I opted to stay at the hotel and take day trips. Cruising single is an expensive venture and especially here. The Galapagos Islands were once an adventure for only the wealthy, and although that is not the case now, it remains expensive because of its remoteness and costs associated with building an infrastructure, along with the fact that most food and supplies have to be brought in by plane.

This little village, Puerto Ayora, reminds me of old outposts in rural parts of Mexico where one is careful to eat only at the suggested restaurants, drink only bottled water, and walk cautiously on the cobbled-stone pavers which comprise any street that is not dirt. The locals are friendly, and like in every other Latin country, night life is active and noisy. Souvenir shops are plentiful and prices can be negotiated, but not very much. It appears the vendors stick together, and besides I have seen all the “I LOVE BOOBYS” t-shirts that I care to view, and I can’t think of a single person to buy one for although I have a number of male friends who would admit to the slogan, but are too old for the shirt!