Australia for free?! But not really...

The journey to Australia began with some minor bumps on the runway before takeoff. And by minor, I mean major. My incredible friend, Sarah (who flew me to Hong Kong for free the previous year), gave me standby tickets so that I could go to Australia for Christmas and New Year's. With standby tickets, you only have to pay taxes and fees. Granted, for a flight to Australia, that's still a chunk of change, but nothing compared to paying for that round trip ticket...

The big downside of flying standby? THE STANDING BY. To get to Australia, I needed to: fly to LA, fly to Sydney, and then purchase a flight for Melbourne before leaving LA so I could get to my old pal, roommate, mate - Andrew Tulley.

After seriously(ish) considering taking an Uber Copter to the airport to save on time, off I went on public transport with a skip in my step, and hope in my heart (or something like that).

I made it to my gate with minimal time to spare (what! no time for beer? could've had time with that copter...). I waited for my name to be called for the flight. I waited until the last person boarded; there was about 20 people left; only one name was called. This was when I realized how far down the list I was and would continue to be. THIS was when I began to fully realize what a "D3" standby ticket is (which, of course, I had been warned of).

A D3 standby ticket will always be at the bottom of the standby list. When new people get added on from previous flights, they go ahead of you. A D3 stands for 3 things that put you at the bottom of the totem pole: you did NOT pay for your ticket, you are NOT a flight attendant, you are NOT related to a flight attendant.

As this realization settled in, I was not deterred. So what if I had to wait all night - surely I'd make it on one of the six flights to LA that evening. I settled in with my beer that I now had all kinds of time for...

...And then some. I quickly got into a routine: drink beer, go check gate, watch one sole standby passenger get called for the flight, commiserate with others that got left behind, drink another beer, repeat.

And then. The last flight of the evening took off and reality sunk in. I gathered my bags, and with a perfunctory wave to all the others left behind, I settled into the public transportation to bring me back to my apartment. I was greeted by this exquisite sight in my bed (SOMEONE had a holiday party and since I was going to be gone, I had promised Court a spot in my bed).

Not ready to turn in after the exciting events that had transpired, I poured myself the last drop of Australian gin that I had lying around, and began my probe for flights to Australia available for purchase. A couple of gins later, and the deed was done. I bought a round trip ticket to Australia for 12 hours later. I would arrive in time for Christmas Eve. NOW I could sleep soundly.

Despite the purchased ticket, my confidence had waned, and I was much more apprehensive during this ride to the airport. BUT I made the flights, and after a couple stops along the way (LA, Vegas...), I landed in Melbourne!

As far as travel travesties go, we've come (almost) to the end of the road. From here on out, I was in the safe hands of Andrew Tulley (and his wonderful mother, Angela, who picked me up from the airport).

This first evening was one of my favorites. I ordered my jet lag to go to hell and went out on the town with Tulley...

Tulley was off to work the next morning, even though it was Christmas Eve (day). I discovered a bit of Melbourne with his roommates, and upon his return, we were off to the Christmas Eve celebration at Angela's. And let me tell you... she knows how to throw a party.

Christmas Day was more of the same. Dinner was hosted at Tulley's sister-in-law's sister's house, with a phenomenal view of the city - although, with the fires raging across Australia - the views weren't up to the usual standards. Also, if you're looking for specific localities in this post, none will be found. I never fully understood where I was in the city. I just knew that during this time, I was in, or around Melbourne, Australia.

Let me tell you though... Christmas in summer? I don't hate it... Roof decks, beach views, seafood, salad, sunburn, summer cocktails... I could get used to it.

Boxing Day was next! 'Twas the perfect day to sightsee in Downtown Melbourne with the most convivial, but worthless tour guide Melbourne could have offered: Andrew Tulley.

The day consisted of me pointing at endless landmarks, asking questions about the historical significance of this church or that mural.

He humored me at the beginning with lies of conquests and hardships. There was some long-winded story about how even this cactus came to be...

 But after a short while, the jig was up, and we grabbed some coffees and went shopping with Tulley's illustrious roommate, Jackie.

The murals were actually quite incredible - Tulley took me to many famous streets, although I couldn't tell you which ones.

It was then time to celebrate Boxing Day RIGHT. I put on my new jumpsuit, and we were off to meet up with Tulley's brother at the "Espy" (gorgeous hotel / bar on the water where all of the cool kids hang out on Boxing Day, so obviously we were there). The night ended with kebabs, which we had to eat, because according to Tulley, it's "so Melbourne".

The next day Tulley and I took off for Palm Beach! Sarah Elix (another Australian bestie that lives in NYC, but was visiting her family in Sydney for the holidays) picked us up from the airport, and we were off to meet up with her family at the beach. Our time here looked a lot like this:

Other things we did: beach, pool, hike, sleep, read, chat, eat, drink, and have staring contests with kookaburras. According to Tulley, this is the second most famous animal in Australia, "Kangaroo, then kookaburra, duh." Sarah said this was bullsh*t.

Next stop was Sydney. With the spectacular views we had at the house, it's a wonder I was motivated to see any more of the city at all...

I was able to experience the strange and intriguing nightlife in Sydney. In 2014, the city introduced a "lockout law" in the entertainment district, forcing bars to close their doors to new customers at 1:30am, with an enforced last call of 3:00am. Now this might not sound that crazy to you, and maybe you're thinking why aren't these idiots sleeping... I get it. But I met many an Aussie who was infuriated by the lockdown, and I gotta say, I understand the anger.

Our night's festivities included meeting an "authentic Australian drag queen" who Tulley, of course, made me pose with.

When I asked Sarah what our itinerary in Sydney consisted of, the answer was essentially, "beaches". We did the Bondi to Bronte Coastal Walk which was truly breathtaking. I kept holding up the walk to take photos, but just look...

Each day ended like this...

And began like this...

With Tulley making avo toast each morning, OF COURSE.

We had now arrived on the day. The day that I would finally get close to the opera house. I had peered at her over many a drink, but the day had come to take the ferry towards the view that I had stared at. It did not disappoint. Thankfully, Sarah and Tulley were happy to cater to my touristy needs as we crossed the harbour; I avidly attempted to not flash the fellow passengers during the photoshoot, but am not sure if I succeeded or not.

We did some shopping in downtown Sydney (I'm sure there's a better way to describe where we were, but I kind of just knew that I was in Sydney). We made a valiant attempt to make it to Opera Bar (right by the Opera House, so that the tourist - me - could be directly in the shadow of the beautiful tourist trap), but alas, it was at full capacity with those that wished to watch the fireworks there.

We rushed back to the ferry, because it was indeed New Year’s Eve. I'm not one to ever get excited about fireworks, but I was told this show would be one for the books. Oh, and they set them off twice - once for the children at 9 pm, and once for the adults at midnight. Those Aussies: always looking out. 

We did our hair, drank champagne, played games, had our hair destroyed by the wind, had a scare that the air show wouldn't happen because of the wind, hid from the wind, braved the wind, watched the air show, drank more champagne, watched the fireworks, and then watched the fireworks again. 'Twas spectacular. Oh, and the fireworks show was truly one for the books.

Next day was pool time, Opera House up close (which, of course, included Opera Bar), and bidding adieu to Tulley as he headed back to Melbourne.

We then headed back to Palm Springs for the most lovely boat day with Sarah's friends. Had some drinks, had a great view, took a couple of pics to commemorate the great day...

After that, it was back to Sydney to pack up and say "goodbye". I was headed to Melbourne for one last night with Tulley before heading back to the States. I confidently strolled into the airport and printed out my ticket. As I stood in the queue for security, I looked around at the other tickets around me; they all said "MEL". I looked down at my ticket; it said "AVV". The panic started in the pit of my stomach and rose, quickly engulfing me.

I shakily googled the airport code listed on my ticket. Still not fully understanding the geography of the continent, I was sure I was headed to the opposite coast. Turns out Avalon is indeed a "Melbourne" airport, but in the same sense that Trenton and Atlantic City are Philadelphia airports. They are technically in the vicinity... you just have to add an hour minimum to whatever travel time you had anticipated from the airport. I looked up Ubers from this Avalon airport to Tulley’s - they were more than my flight from Sidney had been.

I sheepishly texted him, alerting him of my error. And just like that, he had a solution. Jackie, his roommate, was on her way home from the beach and would be driving through(ish) the area. I was able to take a deep breath and know that I would be in good hands upon my arrival in this "Avalon".

I landed, grabbed my bag, and called Jackie. Her words upon answering were not quite the most comforting words I've ever heard. "I did a bad thing," she said. Okay... I'm thinking maybe we'll have to go back to the beach house because she forgot something? It was much worse.

 Turns out she did not have the keys to her car. And while she was indeed at the Avalon airport, we could not leave the airport. How is this possible, you may ask?! Push-to-start cars. That is how. Dumbest invention EVER. She had had the keys on the windshield as she ran back into the house to grab something, jumped in the car, and driven off. The keys fell off along the way, but the car kept going without a hitch. It wasn't until she pulled up to the curb at the airport and stopped the car that it became apparent the keys were not in sight. And now, there was no way to start the car.

After an hour of calling and trying to find numerous solutions (many of which fell through), we finally had Tulley on the way with the spare keys that he had found at the apartment. Another hour and a couple of beers later, the knight in shining armour arrived, and we were back in business.

We had an amazing night out on the town, coercing Jackie to come join us. It was back to the States the next morning. I said goodbye and sped off to the airport, for once confident that I had a guaranteed seat and was headed to the correct destination.

On making new friends... and almost getting arrested...

I hit the road for Colombia bright and early on a Monday looking forward to the full week that I had ahead of me, but also without a godd*mn clue what I was going to do there. Had I booked the trip a few days earlier and since it was Halloweekend not had a single moment to spare to plan? Absolutely. I had picked two cities based on recommendations from friends: Cartagena and Medellin (I honestly still can't figure out the correct pronunciation for "Medellin..."). 

Upon arrival in Cartagena, my phone was dead. I had at the last minute memorized the name of my hostel and followed the first dude that yelled "taxi". We kept walking and walking and walking, while my inner monologue matched the beat with, "this is where I die, this is where I die..." These thoughts continued as we got into an unmarked car where my taxi driver used Google translate to try to sell me weed and cocaine. Since I seemed unconvinced, he handed me the cocaine to inspect, and after I once again turned down his offer, he moved on to my sightseeing options. I gripped my bag and stared out at the ocean, hoping that a.) he wouldn't crash while showing off his drugs and b.) that I had memorized the hostel address correctly... 

We pulled up to Media Luna Hostel, and since the pesos were Monopoly money to me, I handed him whatever he requested without an inkling of how much it was. But hey... I freakin made it!!! 

I immediately met people in my room that invited me to go on a walking tour with them in 15 minutes. Um, DONE. Hands down my favorite way to orient myself to a city (or at least attempt to...) After 3 trips down to the corner store for just about every toiletry you can think of (I guess in my mind, I was staying at a hotel? IDK), I had five minutes to shower. I ran out after my roommates with my hair dripping, as ready as I would ever be.

Upon arrival, it turned out that it was not the tour they thought it was, so they decided to leave. I was torn, not knowing if I should "orient" myself or if I should make friends. Enter Brooke, Chelsea, Christine and Lauren. They were at the same hostel and had come for the walking tour and were there to stay. Thus my fate was decided for the next two days. 

This walking tour was amazing. Beer salesmen (not sure what else you would call them?) dutifully followed the tour around, and you could just walk over a grab a beer at any point (for what I believe was about a dollar). 

I learned two things from our tour guide: the colors of the Colombian flag are red, yellow and blue because of the red lips, yellow hair and blue eyes of some European woman that fell in love with someone or other (okay, that's obviously a myth, but he DID tell us about it). Secondly, the number 11 is lucky... We talked about this a lot the trip and took pictures throwing up "11" (see below), but Google is turning up absolutely nothing regarding this, so maybe our tour guide was just full of sh*t.

We were the delinquents of the group and got left behind a couple of times for doing things like this...

A couple of German guys joined our group and after grabbing my first meal of the trip, we headed back to the hostel pool to "regroup", aka drink coco locos. We then hit up several bars at random. We kept leaving bars that we deemed too expensive... $3 for a beer instead of $1..???? RIP OFF. I mean for real though... We did find some good ones though.

One of us then had the genius idea to buy our OWN beer and scale the wall that surrounds the city.

Chelsea and I then had to pee, so we went and hid behind this tent thing on beach? Meanwhile, the German boys were peeing further down the beach. 

By the time Chelsea and I came back (five minutes later), the German lads were in a full-fledged argument with two policemen atop the wall who accused them of peeing on the beach. Not wanting to get arrested on my first night there, a few of us got in a taxi, urging everyone else to do the same. 

***Sidebar: as you may remember from my Santo Domingo post, the police tried to steal our IDs, and the only way we were saved from a major ripoff was because Daniel made us walk VERY quickly away. So in my experience... this worked! For this reason... I thought we should all just leave the police atop the wall and call it a day.***

So not everyone got in the taxi, leaving the three of us that did extremely guilt ridden. In the end, the German guys handed over every peso they had in their wallet as a fine (BRIBE) to these guys, about the equivalent to $37 from what I remember... I guess it could've been much worse. As you will find out...

Day 2! Woke up refreshed(ish)... At least I look it in this super cool photo that the hostel posted of me whilst I slowly woke up in the hostel courtyard...

After grabbing some coffee, we crammed into a cab and headed to the markets. Mandatory coconut stop...

After a few silly purchases, well on my part at least (when am I going to use a small wicker purse that does not even fit my phone, let alone anything else that people put in purses), we once again took the illegal route back towards our hostel: five gringo gals conspicuously in a very small taxi. The taxi driver freaked out pretty much the whole way, but we made it back in one piece.

Back to our street to grab arepas before heading out on one of the weirdest excursions I have encountered.

We piled into a very large van to go on a trip to... the volcano mud baths!!! Never heard of them? Yeah, most people have not. Was this 100% a tourist trap? YES. Was this obvious from the moment that we started driving all around Cartagena FOR AN HOUR trying to find people to come with us? I'd say so...

Tourist trap it may be, but these mud baths were spectacular. Let me walk you through it. After the hour of searching for people, then an hour of actually driving in the right direction, you arrive at the "volcano" (actually a 30 foot man-made mound of dirt that you could easily fall to your death from as you embark on a very slippery ascent to the top).

Then you (one by one) enter the baths. And by "enter" I mean that we were dragged in by the people that worked literally IN the baths. They then pushed us to the side. Yes. Upon entering, you realize that you can't stand, and your body will just go wherever the bath people send you. Complete chaos...

We could not stop laughing. The ground was 30 feet below us, and we were just floating, and laughing, because every single one of us had thought that we were going to a real volcano.

I must give credit where credit is due. Every single photo that I have from this excursion was taken on the phone of the Asian man you see pictured above (the only man still clothed). He stated that he did not want to get in the gross mud, but instead wanted to enjoy it by watching us. Did we find this extremely creepy? YES. Did we come to accept it as our new existence atop this fake volcano? Also, yes. He also had a pretty high quality iPhone X camera that we weren't complaining about.

After not enough time (also after the sometimes creepy, sometimes sweet Asian man bought me a beer), we were forced out of our new home and back down the treacherous stairway that led to... the women that cleaned us off. I'm not kidding. They do not stop until you're clean. For some that meant dunking their head under the water until the mud is out. For others it meant demanding full declothing in order to give the swimsuits a proper washing. For me, it meant a lot of cups of water over my head, a lot of hands over me, a lot of smiles in lieu of words.

A ribbon was then tied around my wrist, which I thought was a memento of the special time that we had just shared together. It was not. It was so that she would know who to come to for a tip. And then they all came. As we packed up our things, every person that had held our hand as we climbed the volcano, massaged our bodies as we rolled around in the mud, and held our beers as we took photos... came for what was due them. We paid up. What did we pay them? I do not know. Monopoly money.

Next move? The drive back home. We came prepared this time: two beers each. Three sips in and we broke down. Well not us, the van. We were doing great. Life was good. We had made it out alive. No one was being held for ransom.

We climbed out of the van, and (despite the exorbitant amount of bugs that attacked us) traipsed around the road for a few - daring anyone to yell at us. In not a lot of time, everything was fixed, and we were back on our way.

After a safe arrival back in Cartagena, we grabbed some dinner and drinks and then... it was time for goodbyes. They were off to cool beaches somewhere, and I was in for a night of (according to my plan) wandering around Cartagena with my headphones in.

Ten minutes after they left, I was approached by someone else staying at our luxurious hostel. Before you know it, after a few hostel happy hour drinks, I agreed to go out for the night with two German dudes and a Turkish guy.

I thought I had met my friend quota for the trip, and then there I was: dancing in clubs, getting awkward photos taken and wandering the streets with some super fun dudes that I had met just hours before. Our Turkish friend had been to this bar before and was adamant that we all get pictures with the owner, so here you go... (Pretty sure all of the photos on the wall were with celebrities. This dude was not famous, and clearly, neither were we.)

We meandered a bit more, and after a few different places, Philip (German guy pictured above) and I realized we had lost the other two and headed back to the hostel to find our friends.

As we approached our hostel, my worst nightmare occured. Five policemen surrounded us. Flashlights high. Guns pointed right at us.

My confidence level has never been higher. I walked away. My hostel was on the block, and if Cartagena was like Santo Domingo, then this was clearly the only way to survive. As I approached the hostel, it became apparent that my path to survival should evolve. They chased after me. Began to handcuff me. And honestly, if it wasn't for Philip, I would still be in a Colombian jail.

I should have mentioned earlier... they were yelling for my passport, which as the dumb American that I am, I had on me. Once I showed it, one of the policemen walked away with it. I started screaming to them about how illegal all of this was. Their response?

"This is not America. THIS IS COLOMBIA."

I've never been more terrified in my life. They were right.

This declaration shut me up in an unprecedented way (I'm sure my friends wish they could replicate this reaction). I stood there in silence, hoping that my newly found compliance would calm them. Just when I thought the situation had a made a turn for the better, the guy with my passport stormed toward me, screaming "You have cocaine!!!"

I would like to make this VERY clear. I did not have an ounce of any type of drug on me, and he had no reason to believe that I did. But I'm a very blonde, very touristy American, so easy target for the classic "you have drugs on you (as they slip the drug in your pocket), now bribe us so you don't have to go to jail".

They snatched my wallet, dumped out the contents, and upon finding nothing, searched my entire person. In case you forgot, guns and flashlights - still pointed at us.

Anyway. Thanks to Philip, I am at this moment NOT in a Colombian jail, rotting away. He was somehow able to maintain the right amount of level-headedness that kept the police assuaged, and me, well, not yelling (quite as much) at the cops like I had been previously (thank God he can speak Spanish and English on top of the German...).

They had to let us go, because, while I may be a dumb American tourist, I'm not dumb enough to A.) walk around with drugs in my pocket or B.) walk around Cartagena at night alone (although that was totally my plan until I met the German guys so call THAT what you will).

We made it back to the hostel, which as I stated earlier, was literally on the block. Thankfully, our hostel was still serving beer, so we grabbed some of those, went to the roof, easily forgetting responsibilities that were to come with the sunrise (plane to catch for me / interview for Philip).

After what I think must have been an hour or two of sleep, I was off to Medellin! Did I think that I was going to "catch up on sleep" on this trip? I think a part of me did? But the other 90% of me knew that was ludicrous.

I did however, sleep the entire flight. Turns out when I thoroughly sleep deprive myself, I become one of those people that can sleep anywhere. It's nice to finally be a part of the club.

So many people had told me that I would like Medellin even more than Cartagena, to which I would respond, "what are you smoking?!"

But hell. They were right. Had another fab taxi driver, although this one didn't offer me drugs, making me feel a bit out of place, but I adjusted.

I settled into my new home at Los Patios Hostel with some coffee on my balcony, roof explorations, mirror selfies(?!), chats with my roomie from The Netherlands and lunch!

This lunch is the most time that I spent alone this entire trip. So much for a "solo" trip. After reading three whole articles from one of the seven Time magazines that I brought, I headed back for the street art tour.

We were under the impression that for this tour we would just be walking around our neighborhood. We were sorely mistaken. We had to walk to the metro. On this walk, there were no crosswalks. 

Just imagine 20 tourists weaving in and out of traffic, trying to keep up with their tour guide. She would barely glance back to check on us every few minutes. It was a miracle we even made it to the first subway.

Then there was the second subway, then there was the bus... an hour later, we finally made it to our walking tour, sweatier than I've been in a very long time. Honestly, if all we did was go on this ridiculous journey to get there, it would have been worth it.

While this very interesting (I mean it) tour was happening, my main focus was actually on getting tickets to this super important futbol game that was to take place that evening. I was texting with this guy Juan trying to get tickets, calling around EVERYWHERE, and interrupting our guide incessantly trying to figure out where to get tickets.

I did not end up getting the tickets from Juan because I received a better offer elsewhere, BUT he seemed pretty legit.

I left the walking tour early with the Dutch roommate and my new British friend. After trying unsuccessfully to order an Uber, we somehow convinced one of many lounging cab drivers to drive us and our beers home so we could get to this "super important, but we didn't know why" futbol game.

I had to do a quick detour to the ATM (one of many). See, I had this problem where all of my credit and debit cards had decided that they didn't want to work in Medellin. When my card was declined once again, I said F*ck it.

Also, I do realize that you have probably never seen finger nails in such need of maintenance.

I had paid for my ticket already, and you couldn't buy beer at these games anyway, sooo I surmised that sorting out the money issue could come later. We all gathered in front of the hostel and broke off into random groups as taxis rolled up.

I ended up with Julie and Sam who had met earlier that day and we had The. Best. Time. By the time we got to the game, which was well over an hour later, we were all best friends. We snagged some shirts (we had to ask bystanders if we were buying shirts for the right team...), chugged some beers and then entered the craziest arena I have ever encountered.

We never did find the quite large amount of other people that were in our group. No service, loud noises and too much fun make it nearly impossible for three separated groups of people who barely know each other to find one another again. The next couple of hours are a blur of yelling things in indiscernible "Spanish", jumping and throwing random things into the air.

Back at the hostel, we were chatting with one of our friends who said that he had bought 3 beers at the game and was feeling drunk until he realized that there was no alcohol in the beer they were selling. Talk about placebo effect...

Later that night, after some drinking games on the roof of our hostel, we headed out on the town with even more new-found friends. As you may recall from earlier, I had zero money left at this point. I mentioned it one time, and from that point on everyone bought me drinks. Granted, each drink was about $1.00, but a lot of these people are traveling for months and years so, really, SO NICE.

I tried to book a tour to Guatape. I truly didn't know what it was, but everyone kept talking about it, so at 3am, with no money, I went to the front desk of the hostel, and you know what they said? Come back at 6am. I dutifully came down after three hours of sleep (still drunk?), and somehow there was one spot left for the 8am tour. This gave me some time for one last attempt at obtaining some money, which thankfully I was finally successful at doing.

The night before, I had met this girl who was travelling with her ex-boyfriend because they had booked the tickets when they were still together; these tickets were non-refundable. And who sat next to me? Well, the lovely T-Lee from just a few hours previously. As if the epic surroundings weren't enough to keep me entertained, these two truly made my day. I was beyond intrigued by the intricacies of their situation, and dying with laughter every time I would see concerned glances darting their way every time they bickered and joked about pushing each other off cliffs.

We wandered through some villages, ate some popsicles, took a boat by Pablo Escobar's house (super cool), and finally arrived at our picnic spot! The only issue with this was that I found nigh everything utterly inedible. I did like the provisions of (one) beer (the "big surprise" our guide kept mentioning). My advice? Have at least three beers per person if the surprise that you're referring to is indeed "big".

We swam in the freezing water, changed in the woods and then hopped back in the boat to take on the "big" climb.

Everyone had been talking about how "crazy" this climb was. And from my memory, the only "crazy" thing was all of the times T-Lee mentioned pushing her ex down the stairs. We made it up in about half the time people said it would take us, took some cute pics, marvelled at the view and then made the trek back down.

Not too shabby of a view, eh? We had a grand Italian meal that evening, dispersed to gather ourselves and then met on the roof for some sort of happy hour - I think it was free drinks for girls, but it was only beer, and they served the beer in cups that were essentially shot glasses, so I got really annoyed and just ended up paying full price (the full $1) cause who has time for that shit.

'Twas another grand evening out on the town. T-Lee and I had met this great couple from NYC that we stuck with this night. T-Lee broke a barber chair? It was at one of the very strange stops that we encountered on the bar crawl (the bar crawl was put on by the hostel, we refused to pay for it, and just followed them everywhere they went, and took the free shots they offered. We saved liiike $3 and only had to put up with dirty looks for the first 20 minutes, so totally worth it. Would highly recommend). All that being said, we are happy that we were not officially on the tour because after the chair broke, we left, met some other friends, smoked some hookah, ate some empanadas...

So all of these lovely people that you see here were kind enough to stay up (basically) all night with me. I had a 6am flight. I had to leave at 4am for the airport soooo they were up with me until like 3am? I stand by this being a much safer way to guarantee making a flight than sleeping for an hour or two and crossing your fingers that you'll wake up to the alarm.

Well... this approach gets you to the airport. Once I arrived at the airport, I walked around a bit to stay awake, and then eased my head onto my backpack to give my eyes a wee bit of a rest...

I awoke with a start to "last boarding call" for my flight, ran over to the gate, only to be told that I didn't have enough "evidence" that I was supposed to be on the flight (even though I had my ticket). In a drunken/sleepy stupor I searched and searched on my phone for my confirmation number, which I somehow found (as they were calling for security...).

I melted into my crowded economy seat and slept like a baby does not sleep - straight through the flight. I had an eight hour layover in Panama City. I meant to thoroughly plan a state of the art tourist blitz on the city, but instead collapsed onto the floor, about 100 feet from the airport gate and slept for another two hours.

Armed with sleep, and the strange confidence that comes with protecting your bag during your power nap in a crowded airport, I called an Uber and traversed to Panama Viejo (according to the recommendation of some random blog on "how to do a layover in Panama").

I was feeling GREAT about my layover choice, enjoying my walk among the palm trees, when a vast thunderstorm engulfed me. I hid under said palm trees until a hooded cart came to my rescue.

I took it to where all of these cool ruins were, grabbed a coffee, embraced the rain, saw a cool view, walked a mile through the ruins back to the only spot where Ubers would pick people up and zoomed back to the airport.

Of course my flight was delayed due to weather in Toronto (layover on my way to Montreal to meet up with some NYC and Canadian friends), so I settled in and stared at this screen that declared a bit too loudly that I was headed back to freezing weather.