Note to self: To be making all own travel arrangements in future.
Just so you know, I am a kick-arse travel agent. Actually, I'm a frustrated travel agent. I used to collect travel brochures the way other kids collected stickers. And then I'd plan pretend holidays for my little sister's "family" of soft toys. My parents used to let me read the strip maps on driving holidays because they got tired of being asked where we were now.
Bottom line: I can plan a mean itinerary, and I can book air travel and accomodation like a demon.
And I should have booked our own air travel for the entire trip.
*rant on*
But for some reason I had been a bit tentative about the whole South American bit, so I'd left that part in the hands of a travel agent - who proceeded to book us on a 7:45am flight out of Mexico, arriving into Quito, Ecuador at 11:30pm.
No, it doesn't take that long to fly to Ecuador from Cancun.
It meant we had 11 hours in Panama City.
It meant getting up at some ungodly hour (i.e. 4am) to make the flight out of Cancun, only to sit and twiddle our thumbs in Panama - and not hitting our bed in Quito until after midnight.
More to the point, it meant 11 hours in Panama City that could have been spent by the pool at our lovely resort in Playa del Carmen!!!
Ideal? I think not.
So I got online, and checked out the flight options with the airlines on which we were booked. And whaddya know? I came up with a later flight out of Cancun - at the far more civilised and sensible hour of 5pm.
I lost no time in contacting the agent, and (with visions of extra pool time dancing in my head) politely requesting we be moved to this flight - change fees be damned.
24 hours later I got a rather flustered reply explaining that the agent had "done everything in their power" (?!), but that "their systems" didn't allow them to book the requested flight due to the 90 minute connection time being within their minimum permissable.
So we were stuck with the original, ridiculous flights, and just to add insult to injury, the agent dismissed us with the patronising, "I realise it's somewhat inconvenient, but that's international travel".
Now, I'm fully aware about minimum transit times when booking through travel agencies. While the internet, God bless it, enables Darwinism to prevail (you might be able to book flights with tight connections, but if you miss your flight, it's on your own head - and wallet), travel agents don't want the hassle and the liability of clients whining that they've missed their connection. Thus they have minimum connection times hardwired into their booking systems - and these are usually pretty conservative.
Fine. Even though our connection was in Panama City, and on both legs we were flying Copa Airlines, Panama's flag carrier, whose base is Panama City. Even though Panama City Airport has only one small terminal, so it's easy to make connections quickly. Fine. Ninety minutes was within the minimum allowed connection time. No really, that's fine.
Except for one tiny hole, that meant it wasn't fine.
On our way home, we were also flying through Panama City with Copa. And what was the connection time between the Quito-Panama City and Panama City-Los Angeles flights, that had also been booked through our not-so-trusty agent using their conservative booking "system"?
80 minutes.
That's eight-zero, eighty minutes.
Pardon me, but I do believe 80 minutes is a shorter connection time than 90 minutes, unless I've missed some new law of modern physics regarding the time-space continuum when travelling from north to south versus from south to north.
Sorry, Oh Conservative and Patronising Travel Agent, you've just shot yourself in the foot with a massive slug of Contradiction.
I was TICKED.
*rant off*
Moving right along.
So having learnt in hindsight the wisdom of trusting oneself over professionals, we focused on making the most of an unfortunate situation.
Only, it's not the most fun dragging yourself out of bed at 4am to leave your luxury resort unnecessarily.
Especially when you've been taken out to see the Playa nightlife and not returned until midnight.
We were pretty much sleepwalking into the airport, albeit awake enough to avoid the informal "porters" a.k.a. tip-seekers preying on the unwary.
Shuffling sleepily and somewhat grumpily along the check-in queue, we saw a sight that turned our frowns upside down:
This family were travelling with their adorable Bichon Frise, who insisted on riding atop their suitcases until it was time to put her into her crate. She was SO loved - and the family were super proud when I asked if I could take her photo - they made sure she was posed perfectly and looking at the camera. I showed them a photo of our pomeranians - we really missed Pickwick and Hercules at times like this.
After check-in, we passed a photo exhibition of the Yucatan's nature - and spotted a familiar friend!
Of course, the airport sported a huge souvenir shop, but it actually had some of the best examples of craft we'd seen in all our Yucatan journeyings. There was a veritable zoo of painted wooden animals:
I really liked this little armadillo, but we don't have space at home for any more ornaments, really. Check out the detail in the painting - all the tiny dot patterns are amazing:
And here's a whole display of "Story Telling Pottery" - the scenes depicted on the pieces are of typical village life.
And I loved this beaded toucan!
10:30am found us in Panama City. It was spectacular flying in over the famous Panama Canal!
Of course, having 11 hours here, there was always the option of heading into the city and doing some sightseeing. Indeed, there were dedicated tours for transit passengers operating from the airport.
The only thing is, stopover sightseeing isn't always all it's cracked up to be.
First, you've got to clear customs and immigration. Next, you've got to stash your luggage safely.
And then you spend the entire day just a teeny bit worried that you might get stuck in traffic, or have the bus break down, and so miss your flight.
Finally, we weren't that jazzed by the tour on offer. Yes, it included the canal, and the Old Town, but it also included a few hours at a shopping mall. Cultural, that! And we'd already had a good gander at the canal for free from the plane. Plus, with immigration fees, the cost of the tour exceeded the price of a day's admission to the Continental Lounge, where we could relax and revive in comfort.
Call us boring and unadventurous, but we plumped for the Lounge.
As it turned out, it was actually sort of nice to have a day of down time, where we were forced to sit and do nothing. We had a lovely view of a lot of Copa planes:
For me, I relished the chance to work on the blog. I posted the Disneyland entries during my time in Panama City, fuelled by Kahlua and milk thanks to Sean, who was keen to ensure that I didn't miss out on the free alcohol:
And Sean? What else was a bloke to do but to get amongst the Panama brews?
Eleven hours gives you plenty of time to adequately sample the Panama Lager - and to experiment with self-portraiture using your wife's iPhone.
Our arrival in Quito was inauspicious. I have never disliked being in an immigration queue more. It was hot and stuffy in the terminal, but worst of all, we were amongst a group of Haitian dudes who really didn't understand the concept of personal space. They seemed to feel that they would get through immigration quicker if they stood so close behind you as to be touching you.
Now I really, REALLY don't like my personal space invaded when I'm travelling internationally. Call me paranoid, but it's like, "What might you be removing from my bag?", or perhaps of greater concern, "What might you be ADDING to my bag?"
One of these guys actually pushed ahead of us as we rounded a bend in the queue, but another persisted in standing on my heels. So I turned around and gave him a Look. You know, an "I'm-going-to-fry-you-with-my-eyes-if-you-don't-get-out-of-my-space" Look. And because I'd been awake for over 19 hours by that point, the Look carried extra burn.
The guy was all "Sorry, sorry" - but he didn't let up. So I really got steamed - I turned around and indicated that he could damn well go ahead of me if it meant that much to him. He was all "No, no" - but he still didn't get the message and get off my back. In the end, Sean could tell I was about to lose it, so he put himself between me and this dude.
And then things got interesting. We were near the head of the queue when all of a sudden, an important-looking immigration official appeared and pulled all of the Haitian people out of the queue - including Mr No Concept of Personal Space.
And he didn't look pleased.
Hmmmmm.
Unburdened, Sean and I proceeded to rock through immigration and customs with no problem. We had to show that our baggage receipts matched our suitcase tags, which I appreciated as a good security measure. We were met by our driver who proceeded to run every red light on Quito's midnight-deserted streets, but delivered us safely to Hotel Sierra Madre in the Mariscal Sucre, or "Gringolandia" - the tourist epicentre of the New Town, where we were due to join our Galapagos tour group the following afternoon. But for now, we were happy to stagger up to our pleasant room and collapse into bed.
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