UA1021 EWR PTY 1703 2125 738 3B

We boarded up around scheduled departure time, a leisurely
but still somewhat scrumlike experience. Just as I got into
my place, my seatmate at the window, one of the first to
board, decided to get up (no apology) and block the aisle
to look for his bag (no apology) and then, when he found it
on around the third try, rummage around in it for a while
(no apology). He cut in front of a handicapped guy to do it,
too. Flyertalker, by the blue and yellow logo easily visible
on the screen of his tether, but I didn't introduce myself.

Though an international flight, typical domestic seating,
service, and catering. I don't like the Continental
upholstery or the angle of the full upright position - the
old United seats (even old US Air seats, the worst of the
worst) were much less taxing to the body.

Service was willing if a little confused.

The meal: a salad, slightly and differentially wilted
greens with a plastic tub of honey Dijon dressing; on the
same tray a short rib with green beans and roast potatoes.
The meat was real short rib, about 4-5 oz of it, about half
fat, which pleased me, apparently boiled before browning,
which did not. A sweet and negligible sauce didn't help.
The green beans were starchy and limp, among the worst I've
ever encountered; the potatoes okay.

Domestic serve red wine, better than Corbett Canyon, worse
than Black Box. The blonde flight attendant kept trying to
refill my glass; I let her do so twice.

I needed a pretzel roll to make up stomach space.

My seatmate was informed that the four-cheese ravioli
were out, despite orders being taken in order from the
front. He was rather put out and ended up getting the
chicken, which he ate all of.

Crujiente de manzana cake for afters - I passed in favor of
a Courvoisier.

The blonde flight attendant came by and tried to pour red
wine into my half-full Courvoisier glass.

We had taken off more than half an hour late. We landed
almost on time, attributed to favorable winds by the pilot
and to schedule padding by me.

At PTY you are dumped off into the regular international
departures area and have to find your way to immigration
and thence to the exit; the signage is in Spanish, not that
big of a problem, but very small, that big of a problem.
Nonetheless, I was second in the foreigner line. Despite my
fingerprints not reading at immigration, I got through
quickly and had to wait half an hour for my shuttle bus.

The Express Inn, in the midst of substantial renovation to
justify a name change from the Backpacker Inn, is a five-
minute ride (turns out, also a five-minute walk) from PTY.
The shuttle, run by an outfit called Viajes Florencia, came
a little tardily but was fine and quick once it came.

It's part construction site, part backpacker paradise, and
bordering on a Motel 6 type of arrangement. I presume that
in the near future it will go toward the latter end of the
scale.

My room was pretty spare but would sleep two couples in
relative comfort. Two queen beds and a small but appropriate
bathroom. Very thin walls, which, I reflected, would be okay
if the rest of the guests were reasonably quiet. And after a
few peeps from the children in the room at one side things
quieted down there nicely, with dead silence from 202 on the
other side. Shower: no water pressure to speak of, which was
a disappointment. I rinsed off in the dribble and reflected
on how I should have showered in Newark (that would have
meant using a different club and probably having lunch at
Gallagher's instead of GCOB. Then I settled down for a much
anticipated snooze. My bed was rather firm and rather nice.

Around 0430 there was a commotion in the hall: a sizable
flock of drunken Francophones with an assortment of
respiratory ailments had settled into the formerly pristine
quiet next door and started a party in what sounded like
two rooms and the corridor. One of these had a particularly
loud and irritating laugh and was probably the one who woke
me up. He also had a sailor's vocabulary. He complained in
scatological terms about being thrown out of a bar or
something, to hoots and coughs and laughter from the others.
This lasted until after 5, when they left Dodge, and I got a
couple more hours of sleep.

I'd been told, I think, by the cutish desk girl (she seemed
to understand a little English but speak none, the exact
counterposition to mine) that breakfast was from 7 to 9, and
she suggested 8; so I showed up at 8 - the place was
deserted, but some provisions were available on the counter.

Strange phenomenon I've encountered in the tropics - the
orange juice is cut and in general not very good. Here it
was orange drink, not juice, negligible fruit content.
Water, tea, and coffee were also available.

Bread and jam; also Maria Pascual cookies, which tasted like
the arrowroot biscuits that you used to give to teething
infants.

The water pressure was okay now - I figure someone else must
have been also taking a shower last night when I tried.