The Deconstruction of Normal OR, The Search for a Clean Washroom

The muddy footprints coming from the men's washroom in the Cuzco airport boarding area allowed ready interpretation to the sign in Spanish outside the door.  Obviously, men were at work. A new concrete and tile floor was being constructed and I was in somewhat of an anxious search for an alternative facility. Despite having arrived two hours early, leaving no concern about catching the plane from Cuzco to Lima, my inquiries confirmed that there was no other boarding area washroom, and I would have to go back through security.

Immediately across the store-lined hallway from security I located the “banos” [pronounced, "ban yos”]. As is often the case in airports there is a need to protect the security, and ensure the sanitary nature, of these amenities utilized by thousands of travelers each day. Not surprisingly, an attendant with his mop and bucket was standing just inside the doorway. He was young, and anything but diligent-looking. But when the interior of the men's washroom came into view, my skepticism evolved into certainty about any usefulness the young man may have had.

WARNING.  This blog is rated PG-14.  No pictures were taken by me to make this blog so your imagination may be required.  The men's room was small with one wall lined with three wash basins (all but one of which were occupied), one wall lined with three urinals (all of which were occupied), and one wall comprised of two stalls (both of which were occupied). I stood patiently, at least at first, beside the washroom guard, who as I then noticed had something of a glazed, faraway look in his eyes.

Now for reasons I need not go into, I was interested in the availability of a stall, which I began to study more closely, having no real alternative in my "wait next in line" position. The construction of the toilet enclosures was peculiar to say the least. They were both built out of odd pieces of plywood, two by fours and other lumber assembled and then painted in somewhat of a haphazard manner. It appeared that the normal metal cubicles have not been in place for some time.  I found myself wondering whether someone like me had been hired to build the homemade versions [not a compliment] and how long they had been standing, not that it mattered to me.

Fortunately, I had to wait as the current cubicle occupants had arrived just before me. I say that because I saw both gentlemen struggling to secure the doors after entering. But, in short order I was relieved when the closest cubicle door opened. However, I immediately realized the apparently departing occupant had only temporarily exited, his cubicle, carefully holding his unbuckled pants up. Looking frustrated, he took an allotment of sturdy toilet paper from a single large roll of the stuff that hung on a spike piercing the upright between the two stalls. Expressionless, the attendant’s eyes shifted to watch the gentleman retreat into his cubicle.

As if on cue, a curiously dressed, disheveled fellow pushed by me, apparently not noticing my "first in line" stance. Obviously, he was not at traveler (at least not by air) and I suspect that had I not lost my sense of smell years ago due to Parkinson's disease I would've noticed his odor before I saw him. Wearing an oversized, tattered, faux leather coat, with the bundled look underneath, the man bustled into the center of the room and peered into the mirror over the shoulder of a traveler who was busily washing his hands in the sink. In short order, the ragamuffin removed his toque, looked intently into the mirror, rubbed his upheaval of black hair, shrugged and replaced his stocking cap.  The man who had been washing briskly deserted the sink, which the scruffy fellow then occupied. With a little flourish he pulled from his pocket a 2 blade safety shaver and a bar of soap.  Somehow he successfully stopped up the sink, filled it up with water, lathered his grubby beard with the bar of soap and proceeded to shave.  The caretaker looked on, apparently unconcerned. 

It was then that I noticed the man at the sink next to the shaver. A worker, complete with safety glasses and orange safety overalls and vest was putting water in a liter-sized container and dumping that in a 25 liter pail on the floor.  He was one of the workers from the boarding area washroom project ferrying water from this bathroom to that.  

The frustrated man from compartment number one finally left, and I walked into the cubicle with my estimate of needed TP from the roll on the nail. Surprisingly, the stall sported a sink, but a quick test proved there was no water, not to mention the lack of any drying material.  However, the most disconcerting part was the absence a toilet seat.  This circumstance left me mentally anticipating the choices.  I quickly realized that there were no particularly graceful or sanitary alternatives.

On my return to the boarding lounge, passing classy shops selling expensive merchandise, I found myself smiling, even chuckling out loud. Yes, the bathroom scene might have been laughable, but only when viewed from a specific cultural norm. I grew up with outhouses being common (with catalogues instead of TP).  Had I fallen victim to an ignorant or arrogant definition of "normal"? Had I brought my North American expectations on this journey around the world? Had I proven to myself that I, too, was prone to see other countries and cultures through my own seriously myopic perspective?

Having Parkinson's disease is teaching me that "normal" is written in sand. A diagnosis, a wrong turn, a harsh word or a financial misstep can eradicate one's idea of what is normal. I expect that the days to come may well erase, or at least further challenge, my concept of "normal". That is probably a good thing.

We Are a Community

Her tears were real as she sobbed and struggled to find the words in Spanish to express her heartbreak. She was the mother of a 33-year-old man who had recently been diagnosed with Parkinson's disease. She knew it wasn't her fault, but even so she felt painfully helpless. He was too young and she would've taken it upon herself if she could. The other men and women in the room waited patiently and understandingly for her to express her sense of loss. I was a stranger who had asked an innocent question that had touched her tender heart. When her words were finished I felt like a friend drawn to hug this woman whose name I did not know. She accepted the hug as if knowing that, despite not understanding her words, I understood the ache of her heart.

CETRAM is not just the clinic in an old building in the Independencia district of Santiago, Chile. Nor is it simply a teaching facility for medical profession students at nearby universities. It is a community, a cooperative of professionals and people with movement disorders.  A group of friends who confront the unique demands of the disease with the collaborative assistance of other friends; neurologists, occupational therapists and physical therapists. But even that description is entirely inadequate.

This facility is not well-known to the public at large, as was evident from the fact that the taxi driver who took me there checked his maps repeatedly, and then drove to the wrong location, an upscale building behind a gate with a security guard. Perhaps I had misled the driver to expect something different, given that I wore a jacket and tie out of an abundance of caution (my rule being, always slightly over dress when uncertain about what is appropriate). In reality, the Center is located in a "casual" (completely unimpressive from an architectual view) single level building that was a mixture of mostly small, functional rooms. I was early and let myself in the front door and wandered through several rooms before locating a large recreational area in which a group of some 25 young people were laughing, talking loudly and enjoying what appeared to be a light meal. Upon appearing at the door, Daniela, the woman I spoke to on the phone the day before in order to confirm arrangements, quickly stood up and came to greet me. Like a number of others I was to meet, she performed numerous roles within the community, from exercising her professional credentials as an occupational therapist, to lead in administration, marketing and promotion, external affairs and all-around cheerleader. Her eyes and smile were filled with an infectious warmth and passion that I was to discover came from a heart that cares deeply about the people she served and served with.

Introduced to the students (who were there for the purposes of performing a practicum for their particular professional medical career studies), I was shown various occupational and physical therapy inventions, at least some of which were unique to this Center. A number of these "aids" were actually "homemade" from secondhand materials by members of the community for their own personal use. They were practical, inexpensive, and gave their users a sense of pride in the creation of them. In short order, joined by Dr. Pedro Chana, the lead neurologist and founder of the Center, I was led on a tour of the single-story building, stopping to be introduced to each person we met along the way, all of whom seemed genuinely warm and happy to be there.

Having been signaled that things were ready, Daniela and Pedro led me to a small meeting room in the center of which was what appeared to be a large kitchen table. Around the table sat 10 people, with several others occupying peripheral seats around the room. I shook hands with each one, starting with the president of the Friends of Parkinson's Group organization, Agustin. It became obvious that, despite dyskinetic movements that betrayed his PD, he was very capable at expressing himself (occasionally in English), often with humor and a mischievous inclination. I was given the opportunity to share freely the vision for my round the world journey and this blog, that being to encourage people in the Parkinson's community, and others who like me need positive input every day to battle their own unique experience with a degenerative, incurable disease. There was an excitement and warmth that filled the room as I seemed to instantly be accepted as one of the "Friends". It was not only Pedro and Daniela (who, as well as working together, were married) who expressed passion and pride for what is being created at CETRAM. But every member of the community seems to feel strongly committed to and appreciative of the community . In a sentence, it was evident that most everyone, doctors, patients (2000 of them), therapists, workers (and even the rotation of students) truly care about each other and about the inspiring mission of this humble facility.

As Pedro drove me back to the hotel I coaxed him to tell me more of his well-grounded ideals and servant-hearted approach to medicine. I felt refreshed and encouraged by him. It was clear that not all the medical profession (and hopefully not all in the legal profession either) are self-absorbed. There are clearly some who wish to redefine their calling from being a "helping oneself profession" to a "helping others profession".

It is passion-driven professionals, like Daniela and Pedro, as well as other members of "Friends", who must continue to be encouraged to come to World Parkinson Congress 2013 in Montréal. It is by sharing their story that it can be repeated and even refined by communities of "Friends" all over the economically challenged globe. In this way we can not only share each other's tears and sense of loss, but empower each other to grapple effectively with the disease that would otherwise define us. As Agustin wrote in an e-mail thanking me, we "have an island country..., but now we know that an island and other islands form an archipelago and that this can become a continent, which in our case is to achieve a better life and improvement for all of us, remember that we must be realistic, we must ask the impossible".

Pushing the Envelope at Machu Picchu

My clothes soaked through with sweat, I was exhausted after a virtually vertical climb from the Machu Picchu world heritage site (altitude 2400 m/8000 ft.) to the top of Machu Picchu Mountain (altitude 3600 m/12,000 ft.). But invigorated by the sights below I temporarily forgot my burning lungs and leg muscles. The nearby mountains all rose like spires from the valleys below where the rivers were thin, white ribbons bordering our hotel and the tourist village, Aguas Caliente (altitude 2000 m/6900 ft.), now all in miniature. It was the highest point on earth that I had ever been, exceeding the previous day’s high at Cuzco (3400 m/11,200 feet). As difficult as it has been to climb the equivalent of 8000 stairs, the accomplishment was exhilarating. This was truly a mountaintop experience in every meaning of that phrase.  

Having arisen at 4 AM so that we could be on the first buses and up the mountain by 6 AM (along with several hundred others), we had already explored some of Machu Picchu by 8 AM.  A highlight was experiencing the sun break over the mountains and watching it illuminate this ancient Incan city. While my mind had been flooded with images that many people never see, those mental pictures were eclipsed by standing on the mountain summit, looking down on everything. It seemed to put everything in proper perspective.

In a world where my outlook is so often shaped by the Parkinson's disease that has been claiming my body these past six years, it is difficult to find times of clarity, just looking honestly at my world and myself. Most of our lives are spent in the valley. The hubbub of activity and endless distraction dominate our concerns and consume our time. It is like the rivers, which I had marveled at that less than 24 hours ago. Then they seemed so angry and demanding as they boiled and blustered down their jagged course. From the mountaintop, they had become a few white lines. There, high above all that had occupied me hours before, I felt serenity that I recognized from precious times of personal reflection at Westminster Abby (a Benedictine monastery near Vancouver, at which I have been a guest at least annually for over 25 years). It was as if the world stood still, suddenly silent in the constancy of the mountains. The majesty of that moment was not under my control, but somehow existed outside the limitations of my senses. It could not be duplicated or captured by any photograph. 

But, as it had come, unannounced and astonishing, it departed, leaving a compelling urge to return to the Valley; which prompting was given physical reality by the sting left by the bites of flying ants. Even as I write this feeble description I feel the chill of the mountain breeze that confronted 's the warmth of the sun as I made my way down the steep path.

The trip down the mountain was much shorter than the ascent, given  gravity-induced momentum. But its demands were evident, if different, as my knees and legs threatened to buckle at each step in their attempt to brake my dissent, thereby avoiding full flight (for about 30 seconds) and the rather destructive and final landing. 

"Push the envelope", is a mathematical term adopted into aeronautical language and explained as follows: "…envelope is the description of the upper and lower limits of the various factors that it is safe to fly at, i.e. speed, engine power, manoeuvrability, wind speed, altitude etc. By 'pushing the envelope', i.e. testing those limits, test pilots were able to determine just how far it was safe to go." By pushing the envelope physically, I had pushed the envelope mentally, and even perhaps spiritually. My Parkinson's disease had become secondary, if relevant at all. It was not a question of trying to prove something, so much as to demonstrate the reality that "living life on purpose" means "pushing the envelope". By doing so, I could reclaim territory surrendered to the enemy, whether that is fear, pain, insecurity or depression. There was a lesson learned on that mountain. One that I expect will need to be repeated from time to time in order to retain its vibrancy.  Push the Envelope!

Getting High, Feeling Low

It is often difficult to sort out one's expectations, especially when it comes to an around the world trip. Yesterday was my 38th wedding anniversary, and my wife and I were more than 8300 km apart. Skype is hardly a replacement for exchanging a hug and a kiss with your loving spouse on your anniversary. Also, by the end of the day, it was apparent that my only connection with the Parkinson's disease community in Lima was not going to be able to make time available for me. It felt like two disappointments in one day. I suppose I should've expected things to not mesh, at least at some point along the journey. The major goal of mine had been to touch base with at least one person who is dealing with Parkinson's in each of the places we stop. First stop: failure.

Parkinson's disease appears to be somewhat of an unknown in Peru, at least based on my limited experience. My efforts to contact someone, anyone, fell flat. I did not talk to a single person who had ever known anyone with the disease. Other countries in South America have well-developed programs, research and facilities relating to the disease. Peru, like its Incan past, seems to be a mysterious place, at least when it comes to Parkinson's disease.

Despite the disappointment yesterday, today was an opportunity to experience new heights. Our new friend, Pastor Samuel, was kind enough to take us to the airport where we checked in without difficulty and found our first Starbucks with excellent, free Internet connections to allow us productivity while waiting to board our plane. We went from Lima, at sea level, to Cuzco, at 11,150 feet in elevation. That is more than 2 miles high! Surprisingly, Machu Picchu, where we will be headed tomorrow, is actually more than 3000 feet lower (7840 feet).

I have been interested to discover what this altitude will do to my Parkinson's. So far, it does not appear to make it better or worse. As with most people who arrive here from lower elevations, I developed a slight headache, some difficulty in breathing and a fatigued feeling. However, this did not stop us exploring this incredibly interesting ancient but growing town now sprawling over the nearby hills. Its core is a maze of very narrow, cobbled, streets where great care must be taken even when walking on the sidewalk. They are so narrow that you have to step into the street to pass any oncoming pedestrian, risking confrontation with a bus or car careening around the corner with no intention to slow down.

The city squares were abuzz with people of such contrast that it was difficult to remember where we were. There were attractive Spanish women dressed in tight skirts, low-cut blouses and stiletto heels that seemed straight out of a fashion magazine (I had no idea how they navigated the cobbled streets and sidewalks, unless it was on continuous tiptoe). Nearby were older women bent double carrying enormous loads of vegetables or other salable goods on their backs in brightly colored shawls or blankets, their faces deep brown and wrinkled, exhausted from their efforts. Happily playing in colonnaded walkways surrounding one town square were children kicking a large empty Inca Kola bottle to each other in a time-honored game of ‘keep away’. And, of course, the tourists, from the rich to the ragamuffins, moved in packs among the local folks.

After a meal of Peruvian specialties, including alpaca, we made our way slowly back to our comfortable, though small, off the beaten track hotel to make arrangements for the early-morning taxi pickup to get to the train station.

Inevitably, there will be highs and lows on this journey around the world. There will be serendipitous events that will far exceed any expectations. And there will be those that shake my confidence in myself and others. But, after all, as the name of the tour suggests, this trip is meant to shake up my world in many different ways.

Passion in Peru

Carson has been my friend for more than 20 years, and when I announced almost 2 years ago that I planned to go around the world in 2012, he enlisted. Despite being virtually tied together 24/7 for 10 weeks in less than ideal circumstances, we remained confident that our mutual commitment to open communication, our ability to find humor in most situations, our insatiable appetites for adventure and incurably inquisitive natures made us excellent traveling companions. However, despite similarities, there is nothing like an extended traveling time with someone that can so graphically point out distinct personal differences and habits. Who takes a shower when? How long does one spend in the lavatory each morning? Who is slower at getting ready? What annoying nighttime habits does one have? What kind of eating preferences does one have? All these questions, and many more, can yield answers that affect relationships.  

Carson is currently a pastor in the downtown Vancouver church, First Baptist. However, until recently, he headed up an organization called "Arrow Leadership", which specialized in training young Christian leaders about the art and science of leadership. In that role, he had developed an extraordinary database of relationships and contacts, many of whom were his friends as well. He has also served on a number of boards of national Christian organizations. He has an international reputation as an author, speaker and mentor, for which he was recognized with an honorary doctorate some years ago. He is a credentialed world traveler, and an ideal travel mate as well. He is not particularly fussy, fearful or fanatical

While Carson does not have Parkinson's disease (thankfully), he does have a passion to learn about leadership. So that will be his focus on our trip around the world. He is asking leaders of Christian organizations and churches in the global South key questions that will provide information to be incorporated in his fourth book. He is interviewing these leaders in order bring back to Northern Hemisphere leaders the answer to the question, "What do the Christian leaders of the South have to say to the Christian leaders of North?" Some of the answers may surprise you. For a peek into Carson's perspective on our travels, you will find his blog at: http://carsonpue.net/

It was through Carson's contacts that we were introduced to Samuel Sanchez, the humble pastor of a Baptist Church in Lima. Although we were strangers, Pastor Samuel has treated us as friends from the moment we arrived. The first night we were invited to "observe" a midweek service at his church a few blocks away from our hotel. Despite the language barrier, we were welcomed with smiles and enthusiasm, as if we were there by personal invitation. After some exuberant singing, and without warning but a glowing introduction, Carson was invited to preach for 20 minutes. No preparation, no notes and no real knowledge of what was expected, he spoke on leadership and how we are all called to be leaders in one way or another.

On Thursday, May 3, Pastor Samuel drove us around the city commenting (through his university student daughter who capably interpreted whenever required) on the work that he felt called to do in Lima’s barrios perched haphazardly on the steep slopes forming the eastern extremities of the city. He was passionate about the people and his desire to provide them with hope instead of a life lived in destitute desperation.

The pastor, together with other Christian leaders gathered by him from around the city, provided Carson with significant insights into the challenges of ministering to the needs of those in this densely populated city of economic extremes. But he did more than that. For me, he mirrored the tenacity and intensity of those seeking a cure for Parkinson's, and a better life for those living with this degenerative disease.

When you think of it, the pastor and those who are part of the army raising awareness of PD and funds for its eradication have similar objectives. They both have a passion for the people they serve and a strong desire to give them hope. I was inspired by Pastor Samuel, as I have been by those who are part of the World Parkinson Congress. May they all be encouraged and equipped to carry out the pursuit of their passions.

Honk! Honk! Beep! Beep!

Peruvians drive with one hand on the wheel and one hand on the horn. Given that there is a general disregard for traffic laws that is probably a good thing. Honking is not generally an expression of anger, although sometimes the horn is used in frustration. Sometimes it is a warning to a careless pedestrian (anyone in the path of a vehicle, regardless of whether they are in a crosswalk, is deemed careless).  But, most of the time, it is simply a form of communication. Not so much a greeting as a statement of one's presence. "I am here" each vehicle seems to announce from time to time. It is like a language, understood in some parts of the world, but foreign to Canadians and Americans.

We awoke our first day in Lima, Peru, to a discordant symphony of honking horns. The word "cacophony" crept onto my tongue as a perfect description. Each one seemed to have its own character, whether reflective of the driver’s personality I could not tell. Notably, they were not blaring horns, like angry, overweight men bellowing and shaking their fists at other similar characters. Rather, they were chirping, like women out doing their shopping who stop every few feet to chat with another shopper about the weather, the latest gossip, or to share news about a bargain just discovered.

Having arrived at our humble hotel in Lince, a middle-class section of Lima, at about one in the morning, things were pretty quiet. Although exhausted from the travel, we were excited at having started our long anticipated journey around the world. Somehow, we didn't want to sleep. It seemed to be a waste of valuable time better used to explore and encounter the culture around us. But, having checked in with our respective spouses, we fell asleep seconds after lying down. The final thought in my head was, "I am living my dream. If has finally come true".

The morning of Day 2 brought some challenges, mostly of the linguistic variety. It appeared that my Spanish, which is pathetic at best, was about as good as the English spoken by any of the hotel staff. This left us wandering the halls of the second floor looking for the complimentary breakfast, only to discover that what the desk clerk meant to say was "seventh floor" not "second floor". After several trips back to the front desk, we discovered the miscommunication and found ourselves alone enjoying a simple meal of two buns, a glass of delicious and thick orange juice, and a great cup of coffee. What breakfast lacked in volume it made up for in flavor.

Shortly after returning to our very simple but inexpensive ($60 a night) room, we got a call from Pastor Samuel, the Peruvian contact made by Carson in relation to research he is doing for a new book he wants to write. More about that later.

In talking with a number of people, it became evident that Parkinson's disease is not well-known in Peru. Even interpreters give me a puzzled look when I try and explain what it is. As I have only one contact, whose scheduling has made it difficult to arrange a time to meet, I am anxious to try and locate someone I can talk to about Parkinson's disease. I can plainly see that may be difficult to do if most people don't even know what it is. But, for some reason, I'm confident that before it is time to leave Lima I will meet someone from Peru's Parkinson's community. Although, I must admit, I feel a little like a horn-honking Peruvian driver proclaiming, "I'm here".

May Day! May Day!

There were three of them; each were blond, Spanish-speaking and obnoxious.  I noticed them as we entered the very last and most distant boarding “lounge” #146 in the sprawling Bradley Terminal at LAX.  Of course, the darling children were given first priority to board our flight, as if locking them down earlier than other passengers would encourage passivity.  Undeservedly last to be called to get on LAN flight 601, by the time we had found our seats it was obvious that the pint-size rebellion was in full tempo.  The apparent parents of this trio were a hapless and helpless smartly dressed couple who seemed immobilized either by their own indifference or some sort of a magical trance.  As if announcing our arrival in their section, the two boys, 3 and 7, became banshee-loud as they entertained themselves by jumping from seat to seat as if testing the cushions for the luckless passengers.  Within moments of being seated in row 19, I was getting ready for my typical takeoff snooze, when those same punishment-deprived youngsters (who occupied row 20) began drop-kicking the back of the seats in front of them; our seats. 

But the 5 year old “princess” of the trio tribe was the cake-topper.  Obviously spoiled by passive, permissive or non-existent parenting, she repeatedly announced her demands at the top of her voice.  If her parents deigned to ignore her, or even whisper that most despicable of all words, “No” (which, as one would expect, they rarely did), the volume and pitch of the shrieking went up. This would be followed by tantrums in the aisle, screaming challenges to any feeble attempts at discipline, and crying jags that would qualify her for any day-time drama.  But, as a final move, Goldilocks had a secret and most effective weapon.  When she was not getting her way, or suffered even a temporary loss of attention, she would express her disdain for us, her doting subjects, by coughing in dramatic and exaggerated style with such broadcasting affect that every one of the 300 Airbus passengers were assured of whooping cough, croup or pneumonia.

“Mayday” I screamed silently as hopes of recovering from the last few days of sleep deprivation vanished amidst the preschool diva’s well-rehearsed whining.  Alas, we were all buckled in for an 8 ½ flight to Lima.  I felt as if I were strapped into a torturer’s chair.  Scowls,or turning and staring at the “precious” young demons, did little to dissuade them from beating out a drummer’s riff on my seatback.  Moving to other seats was impossible and the Jennifer Lopez-imitation flight attendants seemed mildly amused by the tyrannical tyke’s behavior, chatting with the parents in smiling, rapid fire Spanish.  Even pumping Bruce Springsteen through my personal sound system and into my eardrums at full volume barely dampened the din from row 20.  If only the rules against air rage applied to child flyers perhaps we could drop off those terrorists in training at a suitable facility in Mexico.

It was a temper-testing trip, but I refused to let the ill-behaved hellions spoil the beginning of our round the world adventure.  Although I had not counted on my world being shaken up by a kid’s pair of designer sneakers hammering the back of my seat, 19C, this accurately demonstrated an aspect of the trip that we had not actually anticipated: unpredictability.

Like any other journey, or like life itself, there is a significant degree of unpredictability involved. Who would have guessed that at 53 years old I would be diagnosed with a chronic, degenerative disease that would impact, with increasing persistance, every aspect of my life?  On the other hand, adventure requires at least some unpredictability.

How do you respond to unpredictability? Given the nature of living, that will become, if it has not already, a key question. Of course, you can try and control it when it creates negative consequences, but some things (like three strong-willed, misbehaving children on an 8200 km full flight) are not so easily controlled without using drastic measures (gagging the three little monsters and locking them in the airplane lavatory would likely lead to predictable but undesirable consequences). However, the one thing I could control was my attitude.

I was not about to allow some unfortunate and undisciplined children to ruin the first leg of the trip of a lifetime. I decided humor could be found in this annoying circumstance. Observing the responses of other passengers seated around the kids became a fascinating distraction. Before long, it struck me that these different responses ran in parallel to the reactions to being diagnosed with Parkinson's disease. First, my fellow passengers tried to ignore what was happening. As a common alternative to that ill-fated attempt, there were expressions of frustration and thinly veiled anger. Finally, exhausted and resigned to many more hours of disruption, those seated nearby, including my traveling companion (Carson Pue, who will figure more prominently in future posts), attempted sleep in some incredibly awkward positions. Finally, acknowledging the situation and being fully convinced that we simply had to do the best we could, everyone seemed to choose their own response, trying the inflight electronic games, reading, typing this blog, or whatever.

Other than the cherubic children seated behind us, the 8200 kilometre long flight was uneventful and had safely deposited us on Peruvian soil just before midnight on the first day: May Day.