Wonderful World (Chapter One: Plane Torture)

So I went to see Adam in Australia a couple of weeks ago (is that all?)  It is winter there (hence Adam bundled up).  This is a rain forest behind him--we are on a "sky walk" set of raised trails above the rain forest.  The brochure said that there was lots of exotic wildlife--birds, butterflies, critters--but it is winter, so we didn't see anything but pictures of birds, butterflies and critters (giant bugs).  But let me start at the beginning.

My facebook post was a little ditty about getting a window seat on the plane.  I knew that the long flight (14 hours) was going to be arduous.  I reasoned that if I had a window seat and could lean against the wall, it would be slightly less horrible.  The gal on the phone who refused to reserve a seat for me assured me that if I was just three hours early for my flight, I would surely get my window seat.  I mentioned this plan to another person who said that she arrived three hours early just in time to get in line behind a tour group that was advised to get there three hours early.  She got a middle seat.  A middle seat WAS my worst nightmare.  I got to the airport four and a half hours early.  I got the last window seat.

The flight to Australia was horrible.  Except for the 1 hour and 48 minutes that I saw the movie "The Tourist" and the two 34 minute episodes of some weird cop drama, and the eight or nine minutes that I dozed off--there is no way to sugar coat it.  It was horrible.  I had brought diet coke to drink on the plane, but I really tried to sleep for the first six hours, so that by the time I wanted to drink a diet coke, it was warm.  The woefully inadequate staff on the plane asked me if I wanted anything at about hour 13 (really--not a single drink service--dinner and breakfast that were so disgusting I couldn't stand the smell from my neighbor and tho only offer of drinks was for coffee or tea--coffee or tea?? really??)  The falsely cheery steward type person assured me that a cup of ice was coming right up.  Not.   Thank goodness they had passed out a little bottle of water at the beginning of the flight and strongly suggested that everyone take one, even if they didn't want it.  Little did I know that would be the extent of my liquids on the flight.

The guy behind me took off his shoes at the beginning of the flight and darn if those stinky feet didn't stay stinky the entire 14 hours.  The guy in front of me put his seat back as soon as the flight took off and didn't straighten until we landed.  So even if I wanted my warm diet coke (which I really, really did by hour 13), I couldn't reach it.  For some reason the guy in front of me could not hear my desparate pleas--probably because I was in a stupor and could not get any sound out of my parched throat, but I digress.  [In all fairness, near the end of the flight, a stewardess did actually look at me and ask me if I was alright, but when I said I was fine (really expecting the next question to be what would you like to drink), she was gone faster than a water slide and I never saw her again.]

Finally, because all things do eventually pass, even torture, we landed.  I took my time exiting, because I really kind of thought I might pass out.  My carry on was really, really heavy (three full diet cokes).  The lines for customs were rather confusing, but I stood where they told me to.  The people directing the lines looked like they were retired greeters at walmarts--they smiled, but they didn't really seem to know any more than the tired and confused passengers.  Anyhoo, the customs guy looked at me really closely, scanned my passport, held it up to me comparing my facial features, grilled me on where was I staying in Australia and why was I there.  "Grilled" is probably too harsh--they were actually very nice, but I was so exhausted, it was a real effort to remain standing. 

Next it was off to get my luggage.  I was having trouble carrying my carry on, so I was not looking forward to adding two suitcases to my load.  There were a lot of people so I really couldn't get very close to find my bags, but after a while I heard an announcement telling me I was at the wrong carrosal.  So I went to the correct one and not too long thereafter, I found my bags.  I mustered all my strength and heaved my bags off and proceeded to the line through the next stage of customs.  My bags were on rollers, but there were two of them.  At first I seemed to have plenty of room to manuver, but soon I realized the line was not where I was standing and I needed to go around, but there were people in the way.  A "greeter" type was trying to direct the line, but it seemed to me that she just made it more confused.  The line was getting longer and longer, but I was blocked from getting into the line.  I wasn't the only one and desparate travelors were cutting into the line.  I figured that if I waited long enough, I would be able to get in line properly.  If other people wanted to cut, that was on their conscious.  I tried to scowl, but I was too tired and no one was looking at me anyway and let's face it, my face just naturally looks like a scowl.  I tried to hold my tougue, because obviously these people were just as exhausted as I was, but I may have muttered under my breath "fine, go ahead of me, I'm invisible, I'm not important, please, you are much more important than I am, go ahead".  I must confess that my ears were popped and under my breath may have been a little louder than that, but I'm sure that the young couple with their two small children have forgotten all about that mean old lady yelling at them.  But I digress. 

When the line actually started to move, we were divided into groups and the lines became more defined until finally, I handed my declaration slip to a very jolly, smiling customs agent who said, "no worries, let's take a look at those groceries."  I had brough snacks for the flight--I didn't eat any of them.  I had also bought a cup of ice at the airport for the flight.  It was now a leaking cup of warm water.  My jolly greeter wanted to throw it away, but I'm familiar with the tiny glasses provided by hotels and I rather pathetically begged to keep the cup, if I could just disgard the liquid.  "No worries" he said smiling and he called over a very important, impressive looking agent who gingerly took the cup and disappeared.  My jolly greeter wasn't getting enough appreciation for his jollyness from me, so he moved on to the next travelor, while I tried to calculate how long I would be able to continue to stand without fainting.  Two minutes, three--I'll count to sixty and take it from there.  One, two...I couldn't focus on counting, so I started studying the people around me.  Where were all those people I'd spent an eternity in line with.  Am I the last person from my flight being processed--a little rightious indignation goes a long way, when you are about to pass out from fatigue.  I had just snapped back to attention, to take my jolly customs guy to task for the long wait, when imposing, stern customs guy returned with my cup, nicely washed out for my benefit.  That was so nice and I thank him very much, but alas, I had used all of my allotment of their time and I was quickly sent on my way out the door.  The door was realy a passageway and you could go right or left.  To the right was a longer passageway and to the left I could just barely make out chairs.  I went left and sat down as soon as I could. 

Where was Adam?  I looked from my seat which faced away from the doors.  Couldn't see him.  I was going to have to get up and look at the right side exit.  Oh bother.  So I got up, adjusted my luggage, heaved my heavy carry on and went in the direction of the right side.  No Adam.  Lots of people to try to get around, but wait, who is all the way to the far side so that he is closest to the right side exit:

Adam.  No worries.

Stay tuned--they drive on the wrong left side of the road in Australia making me confuse left and right, left and right.  I'd say, "go to the right--no the Australia right."  "That's left," Adam would tell me.  "It's left everywhere, not just in Australia," he'd say.  "No," I'd say, "you know what I mean."