As many of you know, my enthusiasm was somewhat subdued this time around. Don't get me wrong, I love Australia but I was just getting used to being home and sleeping in my bed so I wasn't quite ready to give that all up. But, then again, it is summer here so... okay, I'm convinced. Or I thought I was until I realized it involved packing. Again. Packing is a lot like dessert. You think you want it until you realize that in theory, dessert is awesome but the reality is you will eventually regret the decision. It means you get to satisfy your sweet tooth and indulge in something sinful like chocolate cake. So I'm thinking I'm going to Australia. Summer. Fun. Then it is "oh yeah" I'm going back for work. So what does that mean? How much business attire do I really need? Then it is about the shoes. Then it is about hoodies and sweaters (and yes, I do have over 100 sweaters, hoodies, and sweatshirts). And what about a purse? Do I bring one? Should it be black or brown? So it's about the decisions you are forced to make. And like dessert, you are usually regretting it by the end when you realize you should have made a different decision but it's too late, the damage is done. When you get to your destination there is no going back. Those pants you decided you didn't need, you figure out it was the perfect pair of pants and all you can think is 'why did I leave them at home when I really, really need them.' Yeah. You get it. I'm right, packing sucks!
Eventually you are forced to figure it out so I came up with a brilliant packing plan Wednesday night. The jury is still out on that one so time will tell if my packing plan works. I wanted to bring the smaller suitcase but couldn't get away from the steamer truck (figuratively of course, but it is a back breaker). I head out the door at 12:30 sharp. In a mere 25 hours I'll be in Sydney and it will be all so worth it. Yeah, no.
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| View from lavatory |
Fast forward through 3 flights, 2 layovers, 3 meals, 4 movies, 6 sitcoms, a lot of extra bumpy turbulence, a lavatory with a window, non-toxic insecticide, and wha-la I'm now in Australia. As you walk off the plane, you are greeted by large signs welcoming you 'Down Under.' For me, this was not the case. As luck would have it, I am first in line at immigration. I smile warmly at the Sheila (female version of a bloke) and hand her my entrance card and passport. She looks at it and asks how long I'm staying. Five weeks I reply. Why are you here? Business. (Trust me, this was all on the card so I wasn't sure if she couldn't read or was trying to trick me.) Soon, I knew the answer. I was asked to go with an immigration officer who simply said "follow me." This, to me, was asking for trouble. I jokingly said "are you sure you don't want Murphy instead of me?" But alas, she had no sense of humor. Soon I was sitting in a room with a young man who interrogated me on my reason for coming to Australia. I patiently (oh, I know what you are thinking but trust me, I was very patient for an impatient person. I did realize this wasn't the time or place to get testy.) So after explaining why I was back in the country and some reassurance that I indeed had a return flight back to the states (he asked me to prove it) it was decided I could stay for my five weeks. Lucky me!
Happily, I went and got my luggage trolley to retrieve my bags. Only I had no bags to retrieve. Can't say I was all that surprised as the newbie who checked my bags in Reno didn't inspire much confidence when she tried to tell me that Air Canada did not fly to Australia OR Sydney (I briefly toyed with the idea with telling her that Sydney was IN Australia but I figured it would be too much information for one day). It was with a sense of dread I waved goodbye to my 2 bags, unsure if I would truly see them down under. Turns out, I was right. But again, they some how managed to get them to me so my next task was to got through customs. By now there are several international flights and I'm like the salmon swimming upstream as I try to get to the express lane for first and business class travelers. The very kind lady directed me to lane one then decided to send me to lane 2. WARNING. You don't want to be in lane 2. It's a trap, Luke, it's a trap! (If you are wondering where that line is from, it's Princess Leia yelling at Luke Skywalker in Empire Strikes Back when he gets to Cloud City to rescue her and his other friends only to find out that Darth Vader [aka daddy] set a trap to encase him in carbonite so the evil emperor can convince him to turn to the dark side and... where was I? Oh yes... quarantine). SO as I was saying, the bitch decided to mess with me again (she was obviously in cahoots with Murphy) and sent me into an abyss with a bunch of non-English speaking Asians. Long story, short it was another lesson in patience that I did not pass). Whatever.
AND THEN I get the chatty cabby who wants to talk American politics. Seriously, Punjabi? I'm really not in the mood. And before you think I'm making some racial slur, that really was his name. Really. It's just not a subject a cranky American wants to discuss after a 15 hour flight and 1.5 hour endurance run through immigration and customs. So no offense, but I don't want to take about the president, the economy, casinos, or any other subject. I just want to get coffeed up and relax at the hotel.
And there you have it. My first three hours in Australia. This trip is going to be f-u-n FUN! I just have that feeling. So now if I call you and need to borrow some money to make bail you'll understand why. Thanks, Murphy.
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