Robert, the dog-beating Brit, and I were the only ones scheduled to leave via Santiago, the others all going home via Buenos Aires. So Robert and I decided that right after breakfast we’d load our bags into a taxi and see what luck held for us at the airport. Our Thursday flight was scheduled to leave at about two-thirty, so we decided to eat leisurely and then head down there at about noon, and see about getting on the Sunday flight.

But when we got back from breakfast at eleven, Robert had secured a taxi driver for us, and I told him if he could wait for ten minutes, I could be ready to go. He did, and after saying short good-byes to Mike, Nate and Loren, figuring I’d be back in a couple of hours, we left for the airport. As we drove up to the terminal, I could see the Ladeco 737 sitting on the tarmac, and remember thinking how strange it was that it should be there so early.

When I got to the counter, however, I was shocked to learn that the flight to Santiago left at 11:45, not 2:30, and that we could just make it if there were seats available. Miraculously, there were, and before I knew it, we were taking off on the first leg home.

The flight traveled just to the south of Aconcagua, and as we flew past the summit, I got some great shots with my video camera. I was upbeat, figuring the gods must be smiling on us. Surely they wouldn’t disappoint us when we got to Santiago.

We landed and went through customs, and hustled upstairs to the American counter. It was deserted. Our flight to Miami was scheduled for 10:30 at night, but I wasn’t sure if it flew every day or not. All attempts to find out any information were fruitless. We just had to hope that eventually someone would appear at the American counter and clue us in.

Eventually someone did, and we managed to get our tickets changed to the next flight, which left at 11:30. So we had about ten hours to kill, but ten hours was much better than four days.

Robert and I lolled around the airport all day and night, without anything to do except read. At one point in the afternoon, we got to see an irate passenger get arrested for making a stink at one of the ticket counters; other than that, it was a pretty uneventful wait. But eventually the time of our departure rolled around and we boarded the 767 for the flight to Miami. I had requested an aisle seat in the center section, hoping to be able to stretch out if the seats next to me were empty. But the number of people at the gate made me think that was unlikely, and sure enough, the plane was full. Worst of all though, the agent at the counter had placed me right behind the bulkhead, where I had even less legroom than a normal seat. Great, I thought, now I won’t get even a chance to sleep. I tried to negotiate with the flight attendant for a seat change, but it was useless. Oh well, at least I was going home. I put in my ear plugs, donned my eye shades, popped a couple of sleeping pills, and prepared for an uncomfortable night.

But when I exited the plane in Miami, I was back in the U.S. for the first time in almost a month, and was only hours away from seeing Vilma in Louisville. All in all, that didn’t feel too bad.