So here we are again. Another teary farewell. Another
monstrous flight. Another adventure.
After my Grandad passed away while I was in Athens, I
genuinely went through a stage of not wanting to go travelling again. It was a
tough three weeks. Some may call that dramatic, “a tough three weeks” but I can
honestly say I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t have a plan, and I always have
a plan. Should I just carry on as though nothing has happened, should I stay
home, and look at the family and start the rest of my life, get a job, settle
down, have some kids... etc...?
No.
Not yet anyway.
So I booked this flight that I’m now on
(London>Frankfurt>Singapore>Sydney) and, in the famous words of Peter
Kay, packed it and fucked off. It was odd saying goodbye to everyone this time.
I suppose that’s because the first time I didn’t really leave them for long. It
was only 4 weeks that was away for in total and then to spend three weeks with
my friends and family again, almost made the previous month seem like it hadn’t
happened. Being home again didn’t seem real.
I’m blabbing on.
So anyway. This flight. If you’ve never taken a long haul
flight, I’m going to tell you a little bit about how they work.
Basically, planes haven’t yet become so sophisticated that
they can fly directly from one side of the globe to another. There are two or
three commercial flights a week from London to Sydney which are direct but are
so expensive. Most people do what I’ve done, that is, choose a main carrier,
like BA or Qantas and transfer at Singapore or Bangkok.
My first leg was London to Frankfurt on a lovely little BA
plane. Only an hour and ten minute flight. Had three seats to myself. It was
fantastic. Then got to Frankfurt... this is where the hilarity ensued.
I effectively had to leave the airport to get my boarding
pass for the next leg of my journey. Got off the plane and followed the signs
for connections to the main baggage reclaim. My bag was checked to Sydney so I
didn’t need to collect it. But I then had to go back into the departure hall to
the main Qantas check in desks... There were three open, for a plane that holds
400 people (Boeing 747-400). Ridiculous. When I finally got to the counter, the
comedian told me I was in the wrong place and that because I was a transferring
passenger, I needed to go to the gate directly. I told him I didn’t have a
boarding pass, and then he said “Oh, well you’re in the right place then”...
Bloody Germans.
Finally got him to give me a nice new crisp boarding pass
and he swiped my passport. He then said “So you’re going home? Do you have your
Australian passport with you as well for me to swipe please?”
I looked at him like he’d come into my house on Christmas
day and pissed on my Christmas tree.
He said that there was no VISA attached to my passport and
that I wouldn’t be able to enter Australia without one. (I do have a VISA. I’m
not stupid). So I told him to scan the passport again, he did to no avail. He
went and got his manager who scanned it and then, three seconds later said
“aaaaa yes, here it is”... I mean... what? Eurgh. I’m not going back to
Germany, I assure you. (Don’t mention the war)
Eventually got back through the passport control I had just
come through and got to the gate. Now the aircraft I was travelling on, as I
said above, is a Boeing 747-400, the famous double-decker that looks like it’s
been smacked in the face with a bag full of potatoes. POTATOES. It’s so big in
fact, that they have two entrances to board the plane with, one for first,
business and premium economy passengers and one for the scum in economy (me).
After a boarding process that lasted all of 80 minutes. I
always make sure I’m one of the last on the plane, otherwise I get angry that
people stand in the aisles while they put their stuff in the overhead lockers
or take their coat off. Also, I like the idea that the people in first class
are waiting for me... I’m such a dick.
Anyway... Economy on a “jumbo jet” is a bit like, well...
imagine being in a concentration camp, it’s like that, but without all the
death and disease (and anti-Semitism). It’s horrible. I at least had my own TV
and I looked up the films that were showing. I decided which ones I was going
to watch and set myself up with my blanket, pillow, eye mask and ear plugs.
Beautiful. Take off was... bumpy. It’s what I imagine it feels like for the
batteries in a vibrator, shaken and rattled until you have to close your eye
lids for fear of your eye balls coming out of your skull. The captain said I
was because of a bumpy runway combined with a strong tail wind. I blame the
Germans again.
Less than 30 minutes into the flight, we had already
ascended to 39,000 feet and the TV thingy assured me we were travelling at a
little under 600mph. The first of our three captains guaranteed us we would
have a nice smooth flight and once dinner had been served (john dory or lamb
stew) he would be turning off the cabin lights and letting everyone bed down
for the night.
Let me tell you, there is nothing comfortable about bedding
down for the night. Bedding down is what you do to a horse when you bring it in
from the fields in the winter. Bedding down is what homeless people do in
barns. Bedding down, is not what I was doing. I was sitting bolt upright, neck
pillow on, with an obnoxious Swede elbowing me in the ribs every ten minutes.
Needless to say, dinner was edible (I had the fish). And
then the lights went off. Surprisingly, once I’d put my ear plugs in, the din
of the idiot next to me, and the low rumble from the engines was nicely muted.
I don’t think I was awake long, I looked at the “time to arrival” thing when it
was 10 and a half hours and then when I woke up it was 3 hours. Not bad really.
I didn’t even have neck ache. I was quite happy with myself all in all.
I had a lovely seat over the wing, a great view of the flaps
(lol) and the engines from behind.
When I woke up, I realised I’d not watched any of the films
I’d planned on doing but we arrived quickly in Singapore, and it was hot, and I
mean, fucking hot. A very, what my Nan and Henry would call, close heat. Very
sweaty and humid. I jogged off of the plane into the terminal for a nice walk
around and, more importantly, a poo.
Singapore airport dwarfs Heathrow, it’s huge. It has six
terminals, eighty two gates in each one with loads of stands out of the terminal
too. Local time was seven hours ahead of London and at a tasty 34 degrees, I
searched out a bottle of water (18 of my British pence) and sat at the gate and
waited for boarding to begin (again).
All of the above has been written in the departure lounge at
Singapore airport, and I not tell you about the boy sitting next to me.
German. Eating M&M’s. Blond. Tall. Smells of Murray
mints. Listening to Lady Gaga. Wearing a vest and has his left tragus pierced.
I’m not usually one to presume people’s sexuality (I am) but he is gay... if he
wasn’t wearing those ridiculous black glasses that haven’t got any glass in,
I’d have thought he was attractive, to be honest, he had me at M&M’s... Mr
Lisseman will like that.
ANYWAY, had to go through security again. I always get
nervous at airport security but then remind myself that I am in fact not an
international criminal, drug smuggler or terrorist and the nerves pass. Back
onto the plane (same seat) and I had a new person sitting next to me. A lovely
Australian woman who’d been holidaying in Singapore with her husband. The crew also changed at Singapore and my new
attendant was a very good looking middle aged lady from Brisbane (it said on
her name badge) and she was fluent in Japanese, Chinese, Thai, French and German).
She may be a cunning linguist, but I’m a master debater.
Landed in Sydney an hour and ten minutes late due to high
winds at the airport. The captain told us we were pushed into a holding pen
with 12 other planes, but because we were third to land we wouldn’t be too
long. Needless to say, we landed and then the first mate told us that because
of the holding pen situation (where planes circle until it’s clear to land) all
the other early morning intercontinental flights were landing too, and customs
was going to be horrendously busy.
Cue the jogging again. With legs that weren’t really working
properly, I got to the customs queue before the majority of the rest of the
passengers. It still took me two hours to clear customs and when I looked back,
the queue had at least tripled in length. I had no bother with immigration, the
man told me to make sure I “contributed to the Australian economy” and wished
me good luck. Got my bag and made my way to the taxi rank.
My taxi driver had only one eye. I didn’t know which one to
look in.
From here, got to the campervan hire place, got my camper
and did what I can only describe as a short tour of the suburbs of Sydney
before finally finding the right road (purely by chance, I assure you) and
drove the three hours to the campsite.
Not, so far, the only part of Australia I had seen was the
airport, a taxi and a warehouse, so imagine my surprise when I drove out of a
tunnel out of Sydney to be faced with one of the most beautiful pieces of
scenery I had ever seen (so far). I have no idea where it is, what it’s called,
but I think I even said “that’s beautiful” out loud. That sort of stuff happens
when you travel alone.
Got the campsite, unpacked, showered (FINALLY) and sat down
for a little cup of coffee. I didn’t get round the coffee clearly, because 13
hours later when I woke up, it was stone cold, and not drunk. Hopefully, jet
lag doesn’t hit me too hard, but I feel fine so far... hmm... anyway!
Until next time!
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