The first 32 hours

At the airport now, waiting to board at Caplansky’s Delicatessen, impressed with how stuffed I am from an unassuming, almost dinky looking Reuben. When the plate came I thought I’d been had by the general airport rip, but considering I’m about to plotz and that the WiFi at Pearson is free, I’m having a pretty good time of it. My phone works(ish – off of WiFi), and the batteries on the computer have lasted at least half an hour, so all in all, everything’s coming up Milhouse!

My general anxiety about flights and flying are starting to subside. Airports tend to do that to me: the bustle, the excitement of getting somewhere, the meeting of other travelers and nomads. And if all else fails, there’s the herbal calming supplement Emilia gave me. I’m still wondering if I should have asked her for the Valium.

There’s a group of people sitting a few tables over from me, seems like two families vacationing together, with 4 little girls between them, all under 10 it looks like, giggling and having a whale of a time. The laughter floats over the 80s easy listening being belted out the speakers, and it just puts me in mind of childhood days, where everything was so big and adventuresome. I supposed I’m kind of going to recapture that feeling now.

God that Reuben was filling.

 

…

Not that filling though; halfway through the flight to YVR I was starving. Starving. I kept alive on a diet of tomato juice with dashes of Tabasco (sadly no vodka in sight) to both keep hydrated, somewhat satiated, and have the salt retain the water in my system. I also had little bags of sesame crisps and teeny tiny pretzels. I’ve decided to shell out incomprehensible amounts of money on airport burger and a Caesar (Jacinta’s warning of there being no Caesars in Oz reverberating in my ears), which came with a side a Caesar salad. (You see the theme in this meal, yes?)

People, let me tell you: deep fried anchovies. (Mike drop).

I’ve also decided to do a photo series of me at every layover – a montage of me slowly wilting, kind of like those time lapse clips of people losing their hair, or getting fatter, only of me getting more and more sallow, with darker and darker circles under my eyes.

By this point of the trip, somewhere around hour 26 on the road and still 6 hours away from destination, as well as spilling coffee on my phone and water on the laptop and nearly smashing a bottle of Perrier at a check-in gate, I’m ready to call it a day and go to bed. And while the Auckland airport is really very pretty and modern, and would have gladly pranced about, I got pretty cranky with their Wi-Fi policy. The bastards only give you half an hour of free Wi-Fi! You can pay ten bucks for another 45 minutes, or 15 dollars for 90 minutes, or 20 dollars for 4 hours. They’re really banking on their short-haul, mini-layovers here it seems.

Here is also where I met up with Mom and Emi, which was a huge relief, parting the waters of my over-tired crankiness briefly, before they swept back to cover me. I’ll give the Kiwi’s this – the plane going from Auckland to Cairns was beautiful, roomy, the food was actually tasty (I know, shock, right?) and the service excellent. And then I got to Australia, where the customs officials have taken their cues from the North Americans.

First of all, no photos as we were not allowed to have phones or cameras out at any point other than the mini-duty free between the plane disembarking corridor and the immigration line. Then I was pulled aside by immigration to have my passport re-scanned: don’t know why, they wouldn’t say it was a problem but I was taken to the side, along with two others in front of me. They scanned it behind another little booth, then moved to a different machine and scanned it there, and then handed it off with a thanks and no explanation.

Then as we were in line to get our bags past customs, we get pulled aside again. We show our declaration cards, and the women who come to collect us look at them, wave us onward, and then another person pulls us out of line to go through the bag scanner one more time. At this point, we’re consternated, tired, all the girls want is a coffee and a smoke, I’m freaking out like, what the hell is happening here, when they zero in on George, my one comfy homey thing to take along on this journey.

Apparently, they couldn’t tell what was inside of him, and they had to tear his poor little bum open because they were afraid he was stuffed with legumes (beans or lentils) that are illegal to bring into the country. Turns out he’s filled with silica. And so, finally, after the three tests of Hercules, we can escape the airport and my 32 hours of no-fresh-air, into Queenland’s balmy, somewhat humid, brilliant embrace.