Back to Amsterdam

I rise at 7:30. I start packing and write up notes for the last two days. I couldn’t be arsed yesterday and am now rather behind. Bad Ronald.

I breakfast with Chris at 9:00. Just for a change, I go for a bowl of fruit. Getting a bit bored with the bacon and egg sandwich.

A car to take me to the airport is scheduled at 10:00. I pack my stuff and check out at 9:45. I wait at one of the outdoor tables with Chris.

It’s quite a long drive to the airport. Up into the hills again. The weather isn’t great: cloudy with intermittent rain.

I roll up at the Copa Air check-in desk.

“Have you paid for a check-in bag?” The nice lady at the desk asks.

“I get one for free.” I reply.

She doesn’t argue. For which I’m very grateful. 

At immigration, another nice young lady grabs hold of me, leads to an automatic gate and shown how to use it. They treat us oldies really well in South America.

I go to the duty free and get a bottle of Medellin 8. Andrew will kill me if I don’t bring any Medellin rum back. Some chocolate seems a good idea, too. I also get some coffee.

Great. I’m feeling crap. It feels like I might be catching Chris’s cold. Seeing a chemists, I get some cold medicine. Hopefully, that will make me feel better.

Still having some time, I get myself a coffee and find a seat. Feel better after a while. Is it the medicine or is it the coffee? I don’t really give a shit, as long as I don’t feel so crap.

Or maybe I’m just getting used to the altitude. Here at the airport, it’s over 2,000 metres. Perhaps that’s the reason I was feeling crap.

I’m in boarding group 4. When I troll up at the gate, they’ve already boarded zone 1. But, as an oldie person, I can walk straight on. I really could get used to being old in South America.

The flight is full, but thankfully short. Just as well, given the lack of legroom. Anything much over a hour would start to be agony.

I can’t see any signs for the lounge in Panama City airport. But I spot something on the first floor that looks like a lounge. And it is. Two lounges, to be precise. I have access to the Copa Air one.

It takes a while to get in, as my boarding pass doesn’t have ”Gold” printed on it. Thankfully, I check out. 

A group of women with “Girls weekend away“ T-shirts sits next to me. I wonder where they’re off to? Probably not Amsterdam.

At the bar, there’s Flor de Cana 18 year. That’ll do nicely. 

There’s no hot food, but lots of small sandwiches. And lots of seating. Obviously, I take advantage of the rum. Where the measures are decent, after I ask for just a little ice. I grab a few sandwiches, too.

The gate isn’t too far. Though, I have to wait there standing for longer than I’d like before boarding. My oldie legs can’t do with too much standing.

The flight is packed. As fucking always.

The first meal isn’t too shit. Chicken with mashed spuds. Washed down with red wine.  I get my head down straight after eating. And get a reasonable-ish sleep for a few hours.

  

When the lights come back on ninety or so minutes out of Amsterdam, I watch sone episodes of the Simpsons.

The breakfast is, er, indescribable. Quite literally. It looks like rounds of beef in gravy. Brown. I bite into one round and it’s sweet and doughy. I think it must be pancakes, but I’m not totally sure. I just eat the fruit. And drink orange juice and coffee.

We’re quite a way from passport control “next toilet 250 m” a sign says. Never seen a sign like that in Schiphol before. I wonder if there have been some “accidents”, which prompted the sign.

There’s not much of a queue at the automatic gates. And my bag comes out pretty quickly. I’m soon bouncing along the motorway in a cab.

Dolores, as always, is ready with tea.