Canada doesn’t count. I mean, of course I love my homeland, and it technically is outside of the US, but it doesn’t feel like foreign travel going there. In any case, there has only been the one visit there in three years, far too little.
It’s Sunday morning, and we’re not in Canada or the US. Last Thursday we got on a plane to Houston,
connecting through there onto a flight south: Santiago. Chile. The first time in South America for either of us. But oh, those 8-9 hours in an airplane seat. My poor butt by the end of it! The darn thing is, we thought neither of us was going to get an upgrade. So close on the list, so far.
And then, there I was, seated before takeoff, watching a movie on my iPad, an agent came to me and held out a boarding pass that would have put me in a pod seat. Real food, lie flat.
Husband of the year that I am, I gave it to Conrad. One spot behind me on the list. So close, so far. He had been, well (sorry, Bunny), kind of whiny about the upgrades not coming through. So there he was, up front. Oh, he came to check on me. With, like, 25 minutes left in the flight. Ah well. I barely slept on that overnight flight, thanks in part to the woman behind me who kept digging her feet or knees into the back of my seat. It was like the world’s slowest and most irritating massage chair. I said nothing to her, though: I at least had the room afforded me in an exit row and no one beside me. She was far more crammed in.
So we flew and made it here.
A nice little boutique hotel
near the river and park and the tallest building in South America. I napped a lot that day of arrival, and not just in the hotel!
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