Bocas to Detroit

Travelers will find this boring, but for some reason the stay at home's like to know about this stuff.

Yesterday I booked a flight from Panama, Panama, Panama (One up on New York, New York) to Detroit. The next mission was to get from this little island in the Bocas archipelago to Panama City. After a few cups of fresh brew I walked a block to the edge of the airport, down the balance of the fence along the single strip, across the width of the airport and to the tiny terminal. Purchasing a ticket took but 5 minutes. I had failed to bring my passport and in my befuddled state forgot my passport number, but I just provided my Texas driver's license number. I took the ticket and my change and headed out the door. A bit thirsty I popped into a chino to buy some water. What is a chino? It is is mini-super. What is that? A grocery store that sells things in a addition to groceries. Like a supermarket, but smaller; makes sense, doesn't it? They are called chinos because they are all run by the Chinese.

What the hell? I had more money than I started with. I'd have to track down the clerk later.

Returning back to my apartment I packed. I needed nothing more than most of the few clothes that I have and my toiletries and of course, my electronics, which far outweigh my clothes. My caretaker, Frank,was not home, but I found his wife and gave her $10 for him to clean the place up, in preparation of handing the keys over to a friend to use during my absence.

I was getting status updates from my son, Mark, from gmail chat to his phone. After I asked him to ensure that his old brother was aware of the situation, Mark called his older brother Karl, living in Austin. Within minutes I was advised that Karl had face planted into a car during a biking accident, gashed his nose and knocked out one his right upper incisor, his left upper incisor was ready to fall out and that several other teeth had been chipped. Karl was not going to be making it to Detroit.

Shortly after three I headed back to the airport, found my clerk, asked if he was short of money. He indicated that he was $152 short. I looked in my wallet and there were seven twenties, two fives ahead of my fresh ATM dispensed twenties. I handed him the money, much to his relief. A few minutes later I tried to clear security, but they found a switch blade in my day pack that I was trying to carry aboard. I took the knife leaving my goods there, exited security, found Edgar, the clerk, asked him to hold it for two weeks, was waived through security again and got on the little prop plane.

Within an hour we flew half way across the country, landing at Albrook airport, in the heart of the city. I found it difficult to find a taxi to take me to Albrook Bus Terminal as it was so close and taxi drivers are presumably allowed to decline rides, but finally found one and negotiated a fare of $2. The bus terminal is no more than two or three miles from the airport terminal, but the passage is not pedestrian friendly.

I discovered that there was a bus service to Tocumen International Airport that I hadn't known about. Rather than the Red Devils, chicken buses which plague the city big, well appointed, air conditioned buses also had an express run. The line had three hundred people or so in it, but buses pulled up every couple of minutes and people boarded multiple buses simultaneously. Within 20 minutes I boarded a bus, paid my $1.25 fare and headed out to Tocumen. Thirty or forty minutes later the driver, yelled "Aeropuerto, Aeropeurto,Aeropuerto" assured that this gringo wanted and needed to get off here. I was the sole passenger to exit the bus, wondering were the rest of the passengers were bound.

A quick survey was sufficient to gather my bearings and I trekked off to the airport.

The United ticket counter was not open and I had 15 hours or so to kill, but better here than trying to find lodging, get a guaranteed wake up call, and a morning taxi. Unfortunately there is not much to do until one clears security. With access to a printer, I could print a boarding pass, but all such services were on the other side of security. I read "Origin of the Species." and walked around on occasion, leaving my backpack unattended. The couches are ten feet long, have no arm rests and were well occupied by traveler's killing time by slumbering.

Finally at 4:30 I waited in line in the United line. A dozen airlines sell flights, all operated by Copa. But the Copa representative told me that United didnt' fly to Newark and to try with Continental. No way of knowing what time the Continental ticket counters would be manned. My PC was acting up,but I was able to check my gmail with my Kindle. Yup, a 10:04 flight on United and it was operated by Continental. At 7:00 a line started to form at Continental. At 8 or so they started to serve passengers. I got my boarding pass and cleared security. I checked my email and went back to reading having been awake 26 hours at this time. An hour and a half later I boarded the flight and flew uneventfully to Newark. On the way I filled out my Customs declaration.

Country of Residence: None

Occupation: None

Address: None

Foreseen Address: Various

etc.

I was directed from the US passport holder line to the foreign passport holder stations as they had no line. The chump at passport control was not amused and started to grill me?
"You don't have a job? How do you support yourself?" "I have money."

"Where do you get mail?" "I don't get mail."

"How do you pay your taxes?" "Ask the IRS."

"How much money are you carrying?" "It's on the form, $473."

"What is the purpose of your visit?" "I am a U.S. Citizen, carrying a US passport, these questions are unwarranted please get your supervisor over here or let me go, I am not answering any more of your questions."

He let me go.

Gate A23A. Down the hall, up the escalator, a flight of stairs, a train, a hallway a flight of stairs. That was easy. This is a tiny little airport after dealing with Heathrow, Miami and Dallas/Fort Worth.

Approaching TSA security, I stopped at the line while a big old white guy boomed out, trying to sound very official. "Wait behind the black line." I boomed back, "The black line ahead of me, behind which I am standing?" He went back to examining a ticket and a passport as though inspecting art for forgery. The passenger went on his way. They guy looked up at me. I waited. He waited. I waited, He waited. I waited. He said, "Next Passenger!" I gave him my passport and Ticket and looked puzzled. He called over his supervisor, a smiling black guy in his late thirties. "The names don't match." On my ticket it said "Jim Schmidt" my passport reads "James Schmidt." The supervisor took the ticket, the passport, marked the ticket stood behind the clown and shook his head as if to say "See the kind of idiots I have to deal with?" Handed me the ticket and passport with a smile and said, "Have a nice flight."

The status boards indicated the flight was delayed. The Continental status board said "Next flight DTW 2:30 cancelled." What the hell? Ok the two thirty was cancelled, that was hours ago what is the status of my flight, originally scheduled to leave in an hour? And why don't any of these monitors display the current time? I kept running over to full departure monitors for the status update on my flight, they couldn't bother to show it at the departure gate, or make announcements.

Finally I asked what the status of the flight was and was told that it had been changed to another gate. The monitors had not been updated. Going to the other gate, Continental announcements came in a flurry. Passengers at this gate had to go to a gate in another terminal, which meant, of course, a trek, a train and worst of all another TSA line and stupid rules.

Update after update on our flight, "The plane is coming in from Atlanta and will be arriving at Terminal A23A, it will then taxi over here." We will advise. Who runs this airline? A23A was the original gate, an empty plane is arriving and having a little layover at the wrong gate.

Finally I flew onto to Detroit, walked down to grab my bags and was pleased to see my son Mark waiting at the base of the escalators on the way to baggage claim.

Well that journey was over, now onto fulfill the intended purpose of this trip.