9:33 pm PDT: Packed, there’s nothing (I think) I can remove from my backpack. (List of gear.)

8:50 am PDT: In the air. Got to the Airport at 6:20, everyone was early, “packed” the blue trunk with flashlights, butterfly net, compasses, first aid kit, etc. Had some trouble getting everything back inside to close the trunk. Went through check-in to stand in a line that went to the end of the international terminal and back, through airport improvement fee, immigration, and security. Some people were on 8:00 or 7:50 flights, and it was about 7:40. Ran through the gates after hearing the final boarding call over the PA. We all made it on, takeoff at 8:41 am, 3 hrs, 57 min flying time to Houston. In the lineup for immigration, one of the guards commented that I would need a license to operate my equipment trunk-laden baggage cart. Later a woman accidentally bumped into a guy with her cart and he made a “license and registration” joke. Lots of people were annoyed at the wait, the small talk gets smaller.

12:19 pm PDT: Half and hour until landing in Houston; reviewed lab manual, I’ve forgotten my stats. Had shredded wheat and cinnamon bun, gave my banana to Allison. Rectangular fields of crops passing by, circles of irrigated land, fields give way to highways and big-box stores, 90 degrees in Houston with broken cloud.

2:20 pm PDT: Houston, Texas. What to say? We’re trapped in a ‘60s era airport terminal, navy blue vinyl upholstered lounge chairs, grey carpet, off-white walls, fluorescent ceiling lights. Announcements in English and Spanish including one that says: “Inappropriate comments or jokes concerning security can lead to your arrest”. Land of the free eh? All the TVs in the lounges are tuned to CNN, I just heard “Osama bin Laden” from the news anchor. They’re also dwelling on the death of a reporter driving a van at the hands of US soldiers. There’s a guy carrying a sombrero in a drycleaning bag. Outside it’s hot and a bit overcast, the air smells humid. We can’t see anything from the gate, flat land until it hits low trees on all sides. No buildings visible except for airport structures and the Marriot hotel. There’s some confusion at our gate between San José CR and San José CA, the first being our destination in Costa Rica, the second being in California. They did an announcement and several embarrassed people got up and left. Had lunch at Wendy’s (exotic!): got a burger, which is a first for me at Wendy’s. There’s a statue of George Bush Sr. in this terminal (this is George Bush International Airport), cast in bronze, jacket blowing out in an imaginary breeze from where he carries it over his shoulder. Explored the building with Kristin and Sarah, hearing lots of Spanish being spoken. We couldn’t understand the airport personnel even when they spoke in English. “Car comin’ through, ‘scuse us there,” said rather aggressively in the most southern accent conceivable. Us: “We’re so foreign”.

3:47 pm PDT, or 4:47 in Costa Rica, whatever time zone they’re in (I’m pretty sure they don’t call it “Mountain”) (all subsequent times are in Costa Rican). We’re on the plane, sitting in a row with a guy who lives in Escazu watching movies on his laptop. Charles Shaughnessy (the Dad in “The Nanny”) is four rows up from us.

8:15 pm: Spontaneous applause on landing.

9:52 pm: At Hotel Aranjuez, San José, Costa Rica. At the airport, more clapping occurred as the first of the baggage came down onto the carousel. (Makes you wonder about the usual standard of airline travel.) The customs official had fun with my last name: “Mr. TAN!” said with amusement. (I later found out “tan” is “so” in Spanish, not that that explains much.) Allison had a banana in her bag that got her in trouble with the no importing plant products people. Diane did some smoothing over in Spanish. It was humid; the airport is painted white metal and limestone floors, with tropical leaf print carpet in places. We took two taxis to the Hotel; orange Toyota vans speeding through the night. The city is like the ads of New York’s Times Square with the architecture of Vancouver’s downtown eastside and the commerce and temperature of Honolulu’s International Market. Crazy drivers; no road lines on the highway, sailing through stop signs without even slowing down, and the stop signs themselves had faded into almost completely blank white octagons. Trees grow in the streets, like arboreal jaywalkers. We caught fleeting and floodlight glimpses of the Monument to Farmers (two massive cotyledons, look it up), the Teatro Nacional (National Theatre), and the Plaza de la Democracia. I’m sharing a room with Daryl and Ross; brown tile bathroom (two towels for three people), three small, low beds with dark green and beige polyester covers. Painted wood paneling on the walls and ceiling, one ceiling fan, a high window to the next room, screened with horizontal blinds. There is one picture on the wall: a photograph of a volcano in a frameless glass frame. We’re watching Lara Croft on the small TV, dubbed in Spanish. We’re sorting out the equipment we split up to be under the baggage limit and to physically be able to carry all of it. Diane came around for some stuff we had and Ross went to help her move trunks. I made him get another towel as well. Standard operating procedure is that toilet paper doesn’t go in the toilet (small pipes), it goes in the trash instead. Also, bath mats/foot towels are non-existent. Good things to know. It’s hot.