JFK airport at noon on a Thursday is a dull place to be. American Eagle to Washington DC is the first leg of the trip to La Paz, Bolivia and this terminal was clearly an afterthought. The ceilings are 20 feet lower than the main terminal, the chairs ripped and worn, the fluorescent lights flicker with a need to be replaced and the faded navy carpet has a mixture of potato chips, gum and baggage claim stickers ground into it. Here I wait to board the smallest plane ever. My ticket says group 3 which means there will be space for my bag. With increased fees for checking bags, everyone and their mothers, especially their mothers, are trying to pass off monstrous bags as carry-ons and my wee little messenger bag has to fight for dear life for just a spot in the over head bins.
JFK to DCA is a success. The 3 hour layover should fly by with books, delicious food from home and tons of writing to do. Walking up to the gate there I see Katherine, a Peace Corp volunteer from Nicaragua, and we last ran into each other at an ecoturismo project outside of Esteli. Apparently we have a knack for running into each other unexpectedly. Good thing too, cause not an hour later our flights were canceled due to thunderstorms in Miami and DC.
Sweet. Stranded in DC. Just the way things should be going. Luckily Katherine and I managed to get rebooked and caught up over beers and burgers that night. There is a silver lining in every thundercloud.
The following morning after more conversation and yummy oatmeal, along with the last good espresso for three months, at Northside Social, I headed to muggy DCA, managed to get a flight to sweltering Miami and finally boarded a plane to La Paz at 1:45am. 48 hours after the journey started I am taxi bound to my hostel.
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