4,900 miles and 10 hours out of Atlanta, I find myself in Santiago de Chile.
In airports you can find all sorts of people. We have our british couple playing cards stamped with the british flag. And we have the American sore thumbs, or at least I can only assume they are American. The 6 or 7 year old boy is even wearing the family's coordinated outfit: overalls, boots, and red flannel jacket topped with a blazingly white cowboy hat. The daughter wears a sundress and white bonnet, whose purpose I do not understand. Last I checked the window, we were still in winter circled by the snow-capped Andes.
I am not one to talk, I know. I did not pack a coat into my carry on and I am still wearing my little red sandles.
I know everyone is wondering if I speak any spanish and the question is simply... no. When I got into this terminal a man and a woman in blue uniforms stopped me and asked me where I was going--at least thats what i thought i heard. It was just a stream of words and a "a buenos aires" thrown in there somewhere. I nodded and they left me alone. Alone in the terminal with no idea where i was going. I found an escalator with an arrow. When i reached the top, a starbucks banner came into view and right behind that-- a dunkin donuts... and right behind these, the Andes. So, somewhere almost 5,000 miles from home i sit and wait. Sippin' on coffee i procured with hand gestures.
