View from above "I can’t recall what it is that I said, or even if it came out in Spanish, but we were able to cut in front of both lines and make it to the domestic terminal."

My trip to Patagonia started with a swig of my K-O-M somewhere over Central America. I thought I would have enough time to let the drugs clear my body (at least 8 hours), but accidentally miscalculated the actual flight time. After five hours, the plane landed in Santiago, and I emerged from the plane as if I were walking though a pool of Karo syrup. Dazed, I followed Stefee to a long Visa line which led into an even longer Customs line. Stefee, rightfully so, was worried that we were not going to make it through to catch our flight down to Punta Arenas. I, in a stupor, shrugged my shoulders. “It is what it is. Mai pehn rai. Et kut vie et kut.” Wait, Debra, Spanish. Speak Spanish. Finally the haze broke enough for me to realize that I, assumably the one who could speak Spanish, should try to see about hurrying the process. I mumbled something to Stefee and went to go talk to a few official-looking workers. Now I can’t recall what it is that I said, or even if it came out in Spanish, but we were able to cut in front of both lines and make it to the domestic terminal where I was able to catch a 20-minute nap before boarding the Lan Chile flight. Now there very well may be a moral in that story about heavy narcotic drugs and international customs, but I’ll let you draw your own conclusions.

(A Disclaimer: Much of this was written while under the influence of my K-O-M, so please pardon the random imagery and artistic liberties).