The days just keep flying by. Actually, they're passing so quickly for exactly that reason - I'm flying right past them.
It's somewhat hard to believe that after a few airports, several hours'nap, and more than a few cocktails, I'm finally in Australia. Not quite ready to leave the airport yet, for I've another flight (but that's alright, cuz I hat customs anyway) but here, nonetheless.
Aside from the lush scenery, somewhat reminiscent of postcards from hawaii, and the imposing illustrations of kangaroos on the planes, not that much is different. I am still in an airport, after all. The most pronounced difference is that announcements made in English are not followed by the Mandarin (right?) verbatim. Well, actually, the most pronounced difference is the relaxed air that pervades every interaction.
I exit the plane, and tell the steward that I'm continuing on to Darwin on a Qantas flight (I had been flying with Cathay Pacific, employer of some of the nicest flight attendants I've yet to encounter), so he directs me toward customs. Fighting butterflies (I hate customs, if I haven't mentioned that already. Border crossings. Flashing lights. Cops in general. Even my passport gives me the creeps) I manage to convey the same information to the agent. They tell me to go back upstairs to the transit area. In the hallway I pass the same man from before. This time he directs me to the help desk. The security personnel inspect my baggage for any chemical signs of bombs or bomb-making materials. I always used to hate this part too, until I realized they could care less if I had minute traces of ganja on my backpack, as it's hard to blow anything up with such substance, save for your tender synapses.
I make my way to the help desk and wait...and wait...and wait. Being that I'm an American and of a rather impatient nature (the two go hand in had), I start to fidget and concoct worst case scenarios in which my baggage makes its way to (oh shit, they're paging me) brisbane whilst I travel on to Darwin. Eventually a man comes to help me. He checks me in and tells me it's not a problem, as he radios down to a woman who sounds very kind and says she's got my bag right in front of her. All is well, it seems, although whether my bag makes it to Darwin or not remains to be seen. So this was my first experience telling me to chill the fuck out.
So I go for some coffee. "White?" asks the lady. "Yes, please, with cream," I reply. My coffee comes. Apparently if you order coffee with cream in Australia, the cream comes whipped. So off I go with my caffeine to complete the duo with some nicotine.
I'm just finishing my cigarette when I am paged back to the help desk. (Throw continuity to the wind). Seems they can't get into my locked bag, even with its TSA-friendly lock, so I fork over the combo, twiddle my thumbs. Helper dude radios down to ask what the problem is. He's told I have dirty hiking shoes. Foreign soil contamination and all. No problem, says the cheery voice on the other end, they'll just clean them for me, in a quarantined environment, of course. The friendly gent tells me not to stress, that they've got it all under control. He apologizes for bothering me. "No worries," I reply naturally, although it must have come off as an over-studied, overzealous attempt to fit in. Seems it must always look like I'm worrying. Americans have that air about them, I suppose. He tells me they'll page me again if they need me, should they, say, discover any dirt in my undies.
Off I go, once more to the Smoking Lounge, content in the knowledge that this kind chap, far as I am from home, has a better handle on the pronunciation of my last name than 9/10s of my friends!
Gee, do you think I smoke too much?
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