Years of fevered daydreams. Months of meticulous planning, spreadsheets, and agonizing decisions. Tuesday night, I finally entered the cattle roundup that is Newark International Airport. You can call me Mr. EWR. Bound for South America with a one-way ticket in hand. A hop and s skip to Peru, with a connection in Bogotá, Colombia. All paid for with 20,000 frequent flyer miles, a bargain.

Gate 103 was busy with the usual terminal noise—announcements, the click-clack of rolling bags, and the hum of travelers milling about—but something was amiss. A man’s name echoed through the public address system, and when he approached the gate counter suddenly, a swarm of plainclothes cops descended on him like a pack of wolves They pulled him aside and spoke in hushed tones I couldn’t catch. The man was hustled off into the abyss of airport security. A wanted man was caught trying to flee the country? Don’t ask; the airline personnel won’t tell anyway. It is only possible the wanted man caused the ensuing 90-minute delay. If a bag is checked, then the person doesn’t get on a flight, the bag must be pulled from the plane. Tick-tock, the 90-minute delay was chewing into my 3-hour connection window in Bogota, Colombia. No need for panic, yet. The remaining 90-minute connection buffer would be enough, right?

The flight to Bogotá was mostly sleepless and uneventful. Now it’s time for a double dose of Colombian-style security drama. Colombia’s history with air violence means the rules are strict, Yes, even though I had gone through security in the US, Colombia requires travelers to pass through security again. Even the most benign items—pointy tweezers and finger-nail scissors—are to be seized as contraband when passing through Bogota security. Goodbye to old friends. I can only imagine what kind of terrorist plot might have unfolded with those innocent tools of personal care. “Take me to Cuba, or I’ll give you the horrible manicure and over-pluck your eyebrows!”

More drama, yes, please. As I was preparing to board the Avianca flight to Lima, I remembered I had these four little Apple AirTags tucked into my travel gear. The small, sleek devices bring me peace of mind—tracking my keys, the motorcycle (to be installed on arrival), backpack, and—most crucially—my checked luggage. Hmm, my bag had not been loaded onto the connection flight. I spoke with the Avianca gate agents, making sure they knew my bags were supposed to transfer from United to their plane. Yes, yes, they assured me. Everything’s under control. Except, of course, it wasn’t.

I slid into my seat, buckled up, and felt unsettled checking the AirTag’s location. My bag—loaded with carefully curated contents: tools, tent, hammock, sleeping bag, and enough miscellaneous gear to survive the coming apocalypse—was not on the plane. It was sitting in a building far, far from the plane, probably in the bowels of a baggage processing warehouse. A vision of the enormous warehouse in the closing scene of Raiders of the Lost Ark came to mind.

I talked to the crew. Twice. Then, minutes before departure, a flight attendant broke the news: “Your bag won’t make it.” No fucking way. They told me I could deplane and be assured of reticketing to Lima—after a security check on my seat, of course.

I didn’t have faith in the luggage forwarding acumen of a baggage service that failed to transfer my bag. Was I going to say a prayer and hope it might somehow find its way to Lima? A mental flash forward, trying to engage a Peruvian in the remote hunt for a bag that went off the reservation in Colombia. Nah. If the bag is lost, I would stand a better chance of recovery if I were in someone’s face, standing firmly at a service desk in Bogota. Time to slink off the plane like a confused passenger who boarded the wrong flight.

The 90-minute delay leaving Newark had sufficiently reduced the connection window to transfer my bag. Avianca threw United Airlines under the bus, blaming them for the screw-up, presented me with a new ticket, and tossed in a generous invitation to hang out in the Copa Airlines lounge for the next 6 hours. No, I asked for club access, and they said yes.

The trip had started to slip off the rails; an oddly comforting feeling came over me. The plans for Lima were dissolving like sugar in hot Colombian coffee. The planned Lima line-up—a refreshing nap and shower in a hotel dayroom, revisiting the Museo de Arte de Lima (MALI), and indulging in the culinary hole-in-the-wall wizardry at Al Toke Pez, celebrated on Netflix Street Food Latin America—evaporated. Instead, I spent hours in the Copa lounge, struggling to recuperate from the redeye. Sadly, the comfy lounge chairs weren’t enough to drown out the noise and frustration. So I surfed the web, caught up on the latest news, and spent way too much time on social media while reworking my itinerary. 

By the time I finally boarded the flight to Lima, the plan had been rewritten. Now, I’d go directly from the airport to the bus terminal to catch the night bus…sans a victory tour of some favorite haunts. The redeye had drained me, but at least I’d get some shut-eye on the almost lay-flat seats in the bus, which—at this point—felt like the best I could hope for on the leg up into the Andes.

So there it was: 24 hours of damaged logistics, bad baggage transfer luck, and a travel journey not off to a stellar start. But hey, it could be worse. My Luggage appeared on the bag carousel in Lima, customs was a breeze, and I was in the country where the ride would start. That, my friends, is a feeling that makes the in-transit static worthwhile.