How My Trip Turned into My Worst Nightmare

November 4, 2007. For some reason this date will have a very strange effect on me for years to come. Whether I'll turn into psychic laughter, start shivering or look for something sharp to do some serious damage, I can't say just yet, but should you be near me whenever someone mention this date, call the authorities, put your phaser on stand-by, but whatever you do, don't make any sudden movements. Let's go back in time a bit and see what exactly caused it all.

November 4, 2007. Like every year around this time, I find myself waiting at the check-in at Schiphol Airport, Amsterdam (that would be the Netherlands, should you wonder). My flight is supposed to leave at 8 in the morning, so my presence is requested at 5.00. For some reason, 3 hours seems like the amount of time they (that would be whichever authority is in charge of the flights) consider appropriate for everybody to wait for their flight. I didn't really want to bother anybody to drive me all the way to the airport at such an inhuman time of day, so I took the last train to Amsterdam. This got me in Schiphol at 1.00. No worries, there are plenty of bars, shops, things to see and do that will keep me busy until take-off. Or so I thought.

In reality, everything closes down at 12.00, which left me with no alternative but to go to the only little bar that does stay open all night, where the way too loud horrible techno-music welcomes you from miles away. Obviously, this was also the only spot in the airport where one was allowed to smoke, which I truly appreciated, being a non-smoker myself. Still, nothing could get me down, I was on my way for a 5-month trip, and things would soon get better. Or would they.

The plane left on time, and after rushing from terminal to terminal on my transit in Madrid (do people ever get lost in there?), I was ready to board for my flight to San Jose, my final destination. Before you get on board, 2 things cross your mind: to have plenty of leg space (I'm 1.90m which translates to 11 quiddy and 2 zords for those not on the metric system) and to have a beautiful single girl in the chair next to you whose secret dream is to have some uncomplicated wild sex with a total stranger on a flight to Central America. What you end up with is the smallest seat in the plane, with a coughing business man to your left and Aretha Franklin's double to your right.

13 hours later, the stewardess finally speaks the words we've all been waiting for: 'Fasten seat belts, we're approaching our destination'. The pilot informs us about the local time, weather conditions, price of drugs and where to find prostitutes, and wishes us a nice stay. And then it really goes wrong. Apparently the rain is rather heavy, and after 2 attempts where the pilot couldn't see the runway (which apparently is rather important), he decided to fly to Panama City as we're running out of fuel (another message you rather not hear when you're on a plane). One hour later, the conditions still haven't changed, so we had to spend the night in Panama City.

Now normally this wouldn't be too bad. There are 30 casino's in Panama City and the nightlife is supposed to be rather good as well. However, for safety reasons the plane has to be sealed, with all the luggage inside. So no fresh clothes, soap, shaving cream or any hopes to a fun night on the town. All we are told is that Iberia is doing everything with their power to provide us with a place to sleep. 2 hours later, we're all being taken to the Intercontinental, PC's best hotel. Nice bonus, and it might even make me forget about all the inconveniences. If it weren't for the fact that this hotel can only host 100 people, and there are 350 passengers.

To make a long story short (and believe me, it did get a lot worse), I get a room as well, at 2.15 in the morning, in a hotel in what can only be described as PC's ghetto. And I do use the term 'hotel' loosely here. We landed at 5.30, and all this time, nobody gave us as much as a glass of water, so the mood wasn't exactly what one would call peaceful. But the biggest surprise was saved for last: as this place (sorry, it really was too bad to call it a hotel twice in the same story) had run out of rooms as well, people were asked to sleep in rooms together. No problem for me, I'm a backpacker, I sleep in dorm rooms all the time. But they went one step further. 4 people were assigned per room, and every room had 2 beds. You do the math. To summarize it: 4 complete strangers, with no fresh clothes or bathroom stuff whatsoever were put in a room and 2 men who had never seen each other had to sleep in the same bed. Oh, good times were had by everybody that night.

The following day, after take-off had been delayed by another 3 hours (which they had 'forgotten' to announce) we finally got on our way to San Jose, and although it still rained, we landed successful this time. I went straight to the hostel where I was supposed to meet my friend the night before, only to find that he had already left without leaving a note since I hadn't been able to get in touch with him and he had no clue what had happened. Now I knew he was going to surf, and how hard can it be to trace somebody down in a country with a zillion surf beaches on both the Caribbean and the Pacific side. A few days later, we did manage to get in touch via e-mail (which seems perfectly normal nowadays, except when you're traveling with a person who doesn't know the difference between a mouse and a keyboard), thus providing this story with a happy end after all.

Unfortunately, nothing in this story was made up. After confronting Iberia with the '2 men, 1 bed' story, which I can only hope is not their normal policy, the only reaction I got from them was:'Well, if beds are full, what can we do'. I hope people will understand they're not not my favorite airline anymore....