Cairns, 8/31, 8 am

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?

Hong Kong, 8/30, 10:30 pm

Watered, I head to the Smoking Lounge for a cigarette. I think I can say with certainty that I am the only person in the airport, and quite possibly in the entirety of Hong Kong, smoking American Spirits. There I find, much to my delight, a vending machine dispensing beer. For a mere 20 Hong Kong dollars, I can enjoy a frothy cold one. So I go find change, and return, pump my money into the slot, grab, and pop, savoring my ice cold can of frothy Asahi. I finish one cigarette and start another, when I find that I feel like I'm starting to get high. Smoking lounges always do that. My legs start to tingle, so I chug the beer and exit quickly. Straight to the bathroom to expunge my newly conquered contents. I wonder, will I get strange looks for taking pictures in the bathroom? My airport security concerns come to light and I opt out, heading instead to the herb store to procure some yin chao and gan mao ling for my sickly self. The sales lady tells me that I have good pronunciation. I tell her that my aunt's an acupuncturist, and that I've taken enough yin chao to cure someone ailing from bird flu. My last remark is met with a grimace, as the woman places a hand over her mouth and shoos me from the store. Well, actually, that last part didn't really happen, but I considered saying it. That's the thing about me. I'm a bad liar. I'll always tell you if I'm lying. So, anyway, herbed up, I head back to the smoking lounge, fiending for more, and opt this time for a Heineken, which as Heinekens are wont to do in a jet-lag-encroaching body, goes down smoothly. Reading the contents of my pills, I learn that one of them contains buffalo horns. Buffalo horns? Wonder what else I might find in that shop? Some tusk for my tusk? Pondering this, I head for my gate, where I find that my flight is already boarding. "Final Call" flashes the screen. It's always a relief to show up at your gate and find your city destination glowing on the placard, especially if your plane is still boarding, and most especially if you've been wasting hours getting massaged, showered, pissed, smoked, and drugged up (chinese herbs, mind you), only to find upon realizing that it was nearing boarding time that you had to walk a mile and a half to get there. a double relief to dig in your pocket and find a wrinkled up boarding pass scrunched in your passport. oh, these are the small joys that herald the peaks of life, these are those experiences that should be recognized as minor victories in the battle of life. and then, and to find that you're behind two beautiful brunettes boarding the plane. oh, life is good when you're sodden in hong kong and have not a care in the world, save for the vague hope that you won't have to piss as soon as you find your seat. life is really quite superb.

Hong Kong, 8/30, 10 pm

That shot of Jameson sure went down smoother than the one the other night (thanks Dan). I'm in the airport bar. Is there any other place to be in the airport, unless you're on the gangplank? Love that word. Is that really what they call it? Anyway, so I'm in this little lounge area, having already splurged on a short massage and a shower (no, Alex, no happy ending). I'm listening to these Brits on TV, on this show called "G"(yes, Lo & K, others claim the name as well). So this show, it's like watching a video game match, complete with play-by-play of every last little minute detail. What an odd concept. Matty would love this! This is quite possibly the weirdest thing I've ever seen on sports TV, or television, period, for that matter. The commentary goes something like this: "Shavaram defends the flag from Jimbob (not kidding) who pirouettes and is caught in the face by a hail of bullets issued from the gun of Sardan." Huh? Just like sports, there's talk of defense, midfield, attack, and so on. "There's sweat dripping off these players", the commentator continues. "They'll be relieved to know that the half-time break is upon them." To which the sidekick, nimble of mind and astute to the end, adds, "Neither team wants to lose this match." Am I in the twilight zone? Or just caught up in a tornado of culture created by the vacuum of the extraction of the Brits from the Chinese mainland when Hong Kong changed ownership. Who the fuck watches this shit? Oh wait, I guess I do. And if Matty were here, I'd buy him a beer and we'd watch together.

Before Getting In Over My Head

I should say just who it is that I am, just what it is that I'm doing, and just where it is that I am. Well, most of this will come at a later date when I am in a bit clearer of a head space. For right now, as you see, I'm suffering from a mild state of dizziness and confusion linked to crossing multiple time zones in one fell swoop.

Suffice it to say that I'm in one of the nicest and quietest airports I have yet to grace with these four cheeks, that everyone seems calm, and that, having had a short massage and a long shower, it is high time to comfort myself with the twofer of a tequila shot and a beer before stinking myself up in the smoking lounge and stumbling onward toward my gate, in the waning hope of leaving one airport for the next.

This one's so nice, I might just make a habit of it (I have a particular affinity for conceiving, birthing, and adopting habits).

More later, whenever that time should come.

First One Leg, Then the Other

Only 8,066 miles to touchdown, the screen tells me. It takes longer to go West, no? Especially when one is going West to go (far) East. This number grows as we pull away from the ramp and reverses toward the runway. The same screen informs me that thers is no smoking on this flight. Fuck! Wish somebody had taken the time to mention that earlier! And now, fight as I might, they won't even let me down the aft stairs to take one last puff. Ingrates. But gratefully, as fate would have it, they're playing the kind of upbeat, yet relaxing music that conjures up ideas of both heaven and acupuncture. So I take my whiskey and O.J. (can't remember the name but I know it's not Maker's) and settle back into my seat. Once seated I learn that while I won't be receiving a massage, I will at least be treated to both dinner and breakfast, all the better to coat my stomach for the comp;imentary booze. Hip Hip Hooray!