Getting Here – November 5

Where were you when JFK was shot? Where were you when the first footprint raised dust on the moon? Where were you when Obama was elected President? I wonder if that will be one of those memorable milestone moments for many of us. San Francisco Airport was my location.

CNN appeared briefly on the screens in the lounges so that we could see their projections. For some reason, the picture froze for the next hour and all we got was the audio. I have a sneaky suspicion that the bars which featured more channels might have somehow had something to do with that.

A bit of trivia. Flying from Edmonton to San Francisco is considered, amazingly, a domestic flight. On the other hand, flying to San Salvador is an international flight. Silly me to think differently. About two hours before my flight to San Salvador I ventured to inquire as to why the gate number was not appearing on the departure screen. Maybe San Salvador is some major security threat situation and so, like in London’s Heathrow, the gate number is not revealed until the last minute. Alas, I was in the wrong part of the terminal. Fifteen minutes walking solved that problem but another trip through the security screen was necessary. At one time your Grandmother told you to wear clean underwear in case of an accident. Now it is in case you are going through airline security.

Manuel met me at the airport and we took a taxi to the San Pedro Sula bus terminal. A huge, new structure that has scores of shops and eating places is now home to all the bus routes in the country. It has relieved some of the congestion from downtown but means a long intermediate trip to the outskirts of the city where it is located.

Within fifteen minutes we were on board a bus and, promptly to the minute, the Express Bus to Santa Cruz was underway. I am not sure what the word “Express” means yet. The bus started and stopped the whole journey collecting and discharging passengers. An hour and a half later we had travelled the 60 kilometres and were home.

Julia, a lady who has been working with CPI since its inception, met us at the bus stop. We loaded my luggage into a Peter Sellers type three wheeled motorcycle taxi and she went off with it to my apartment. Manuel and I walked the five minutes down, up and down.

My apartment was clean and empty. Truly empty. But, it has electricity and potential for running water. (It worked when we arrived but hasn’t since.) There is a pila outside at the end of the four apartment block where there is water stored for laundry and, in my case, for bucket baths.

After setting my luggage down, we went shopping. Two hours later we had a plastic table, four chairs, a foam mattress, some plastic cupboards and a laundry basket. We took a break for lunch and then got some cleaning supplies. Thank goodness for plastic sometimes. Sturdy (reasonably), cheap, insect proof and easily cleaned furniture in a jiff.

Worldly conveniences in place, we went to see the landlady to pay up the first month’s rent. Fortunately she is not far away. On the way home, I stopped and bought a twenty litre bottle of water and hiked up the hill with it on my shoulder. Several school children accompanied me and began my Spanish lessons.

At the gate, the well rusted lock defeated my key and left it parted asunder. Sigh. I took the two pieces in hand and went to show the landlady. Fortunately, I had, along with the water, bought a little can of oil and had oiled the lock. When I returned with the spare key the lock sprang open like jail doors in an Apostle Paul story.

Bryan