Day 2 - Morning

I found myself very awake the next morning at 6:00. Unsure of why I was up so early I attempted to get more sleep - Surely I needed it after the previous days events. No luck. The time-change was likely messing up my sleep patterns. I showered, ate and headed off with Gail to the tram which we would take downtown. Gail was off to meet clients, I was off to explore.

Like anything new, the entire tram experience confused me. Gail explained that people bought passes which were good for varying lengths of time during the day. When you boarded the tram (the passes were also good for the buses as well if you wanted to transfer over) you had to slip your pass into a machine which time-stamped it. Gail had been nice enough to buy me a few passes – some were good for an entire day, some for only two hours. I used one of my full-day passes and the machine printed an expiry date on it. I wasn’t sure how they enforced using the passes. The drivers had nothing to do with taking fares – you could enter from any of the three doors on the tram and just sit down, something many people were doing. It appeared you were also able to buy tickets once on-board. Having a ticket ready before you boarded clearly wasn't required. I almost chuckled at the silly system the Melbournians were employing. City transit must be hemorrhaging money with this honour-system. After we sat down, Gail explained to me that there were Officers who would sometimes board the buses and trams to ensure you’ve actually used a ticket. If you weren’t able to produce a scanned ticket, heavy fines were levied. Indeed, as I looked around the tram, I noticed signs indicating the powers these officers had including, stopping you, even once off the tram, and asking you to produce a valid ticket, asking for proof of identification if you fail to do this and even the ability to detain and arrest you if you don’t comply with their request! Maybe this system wasn’t so amateurish after all. Gail wasn’t sure of the fines they could impose but believed it to be in the hundreds. Not worth trying to save the cost of a fare I decided.

The tram made its way to the city centre. I became instantly confused with the language used in Australia. What I call “downtown”, Australians apparently call “in the city”. What I call “the rest of the city”, Australians call “the suburbs”. Nothing is ever easy. “In the city” was bustling. There were people everywhere – it felt a tad overwhelming. Gail led me off the tram and indicated some of the major streets we walked along. She brought me to the bank I had business with and we parted ways.

The Australia and New Zealand Bank (ANZ) was the lucky winner of the Australian bank lottery I had held a month prior. Seeing as how I was to be in the country for a while I had decided to open a bank account here and transfer funds over. I had mailed ANZ an account application some weeks earlier and hadn’t heard anything from them. Presuming they’d received my papers, I figured I’d attend a branch and see what the word. This particular branch was located at the bottom of one of ANZ’s towers in downtown Melbourne. I couldn’t understand why ANZ needed more than one downtown tower from which to conduct their business, but apparently they did. Economic Crisis be dammed, let’s build us another tower! Business must be good.

I entered the modern looking lobby and proceeded to the branch located inside. The bank’s first line of defense was a machine which prompted you as to which kind of transaction you were here to complete. After a few taps on the machine’s touch-screen, I was printed out a ticket with a number. I’d never encountered one of these at a bank before. Usually when you need to take a ticket it means a goodly wait is in store – something I wasn’t particularly looking forward to. After about 10 minutes I was called to one of the offices at the side and was assisted in activating my account. The friendly woman there assisted me in activating my already waiting account and welcomed me to Australia. The only hitch was that I wasn’t provided with a bank card, not even a temporary one. I was told I’d have to wait 3-5 days for one to be mailed to me. Not the end of the world, but a bit of a hassle. With that, I proceeded back to the street and started my day.

I had a list of things I needed to get done that day. With my banking complete, item two was setting up my cell phone. Having a mobile here wasn’t essential, strictly speaking, but I like to be connected wherever I go. I call it a generational thing – I think others just think I’m obsessed. I didn’t particularly care about others' opinions on matters like this though, so off I went. From previous research I knew the names of a few of the carriers and we had gone by some of their stores on our way downtown. I retraced my steps to the corner at which we had disembarked from the tram, and from which I would orient myself the rest of the day – Swanston and Collins


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I proceeded to the large, open-concept store for the carrier, Telstra. I sought the assistance of one of the employees there and explained my needs. No fixed-term contract, BlackBerry data and minimal voice. Done and done – all for roughly $45 and no system activation fee or other crap fees – bonus! I met with one of the managers who just had to do a credit check before they could set things up… there’s always a catch isn’t there? Problem number 1: no credit in Australia (of course). Everything immediately goes to hell. Sorry, can’t set you up, but can I set you up with one of our shitty, no-data, pre-paid plans? Absolutely not, good day. Undeterred, I sought out two more carriers, Vodaphone and “3”. Vodaphone says they only do fixed-term contracts. Unbelievable, I hope you go out of business. “3” says we need a credit check too. Absolute bollocks. This wasn’t going how I had envisioned. Rather annoyed at this roadblock I had encountered, I decided to move on to another task. I still needed a copy of my visa for my passport – off to the Australian Immigration Department offices!

Navigating the streets of any new city can feel intimidating. This is especially so of a city of Melbourne’s size. The surrounding office towers make it rather difficult to orient oneself through the aid of landmarks. I suspected my time downtown would entail me stopping at most intersections and finding myself on the map. I have a fairly good sense of direction, however, so, map in my pocket, I eventually found my way. It would have been too easy to just arrive at my location though, wouldn't it? As I was arriving where I needed to be I was accosted by a gentleman working for the country’s blood services. Apparently stocks were bone dry and the agency had sent out a veritable army of people to stand guard at the city’s intersections and bother anyone walking by who so much as glanced in their direction. I had made the mistake of acknowledging their presence that morning, once before. If you look busy and goal-oriented they tend to leave you alone. Despite this, I had discovered that if you didn’t have a phone number, these people couldn’t sign you up for a call back at a later date to arrange you to come and donate. As frustrated as I was about my cell-phone situation, this was an inadvertent perk and an easy way out of making any sort of commitment.

I had also been approached by a man, working for some ‘save the animals’ organization, who had asked me as I walked by “Do you like puppies?!” It was a clever line – who would say no? Most people, having to answer in the affirmative, would then have to stop and listen to his spiel about the plight of animals today and the need for money to save them all. I could tell that I completely threw him off when I looked at him, coldly replied “No” and proceeded to walk past him. He hadn’t counted on anyone answering in the negative and was powerless to stop me from continuing on - they hadn't covered this situation in training.

Right now I had to deal with another blood-man, though. Having seen me look at him, this man began talking to me about donating blood. Prepared with my iron-clad “out”, I decided to stop and chat. Once we got the blood issue out of the way we actually proceeded to have a nice enough chat about where I was from and how long I was in Australia for. He pointed out a bird that resembled a Magpie, but which was much smaller, and which seemed to be nesting near the entrances to one of the buildings at the corner. As people walked by, the bird would swoop down at them, usually resulting in hilarity as the unsuspecting people freaked out and ran away. After a few laughs, I said goodbye and headed across the street to the Immigration offices (I suppose I should note that for brevity, I am claiming I simply made my way across the street – truth be told that I walked up the street a ways, took a turn, and walked up that street for a time before stopping out of a feeling that I wasn’t at all where I was supposed to be. I did make my way back, but it took me another 15 minutes to find where I was supposed to be going).

Once inside I was directed to, again, pick a ticket and wait for my number to be called. I broke out my Lonely Planet book on Melbourne and did some reading. At least I didn’t feel so out of place here – all around me were people with foreign passports, here for a number of different reasons. My number was eventually called. I proceeded to the counter and was quickly printed out a label for my passport. Item 3: complete. I was 2 for 3 at this point and decided to find a Starbucks and look up some things on my laptop.

I normally don’t go to Starbucks but it was the only place I could think of that would have a hotspot. I recalled seeing one at my trusty corner of Swanston and Collins. Indeed, they did, or so their sign advertised. I perused their menu and felt embarrassed that I couldn’t locate the coffee option. Confusion slowly turned into concern as I became quite sure it was not on the menu – where was the coffee? I asked the man across the counter if they had just regular coffee. “Yes!” he exclaimed as he proceeded to list off the different types of cappuccinos, espressos and lattes that they could prepare. I gave him a disapproving look – I wasn’t daft, I could read the menu. I asked him more specifically if they carried coffee of the drip variety. His blank stare indicated he had no idea what I was talking about. I decided not to press the matter and ordered a latte so as not to hold the line. The total came to $4.00 and change. I begrudgingly paid the bill and proceeded to wait for my ‘coffee’. How could Starbucks not have coffee? What was this non-sense? A short fellow behind the counter appeared to be responsible for the preparation of all the drinks. He would call out the names of the drinks as they were finished and thanked people as they approached, collected their beverage and left. His call was more of a shout, however, and his ‘Thank You’ came out as more of a ‘Tank Yiiu’. I grew somewhat annoyed as he continued to belt out drink names and bid people farewell with his oddly pronounced thanks. He finally screamed out my cappuccino which I hastily took to a far corner, away from all the noise. I proceeded to start my laptop and attempt to log on to the internet. Starbucks indeed had a router you could connect with, but upon loading the browser you were prompted to enter credentials to gain access. As I read the page I learned I could get these credentials by paying a nominal fee – something outrageous like $8 for 15 minutes of use. I couldn’t believe my luck. I had just purchased a grossly overpriced cup of espresso mixed with steamed milk and they weren’t even going to offer me free internet. I had much to learn about Australia it seemed. Disappointed at my discovery, I packed my things and returned outside. The morning was wrapping up and my list of things to-do was dwindling. I had made some progress, been confronted with some barriers and made some discoveries, both good and bad. Not a bad start to the day, I suppose.

Day 1

There's nothing worse than arriving in a new country and being forced to wait to get off the plane you've just spent far too many hours in. Such was my plight at the rear of the Boeing 747-400 that had brought us safely to Melbourne. My seat at the back of the plane meant that a goodly wait was to be expected before we would be allowed to disembark. I imagined myself already in the airport. I surely would have been had I chosen the seat mid-way up the plane instead of at the rear, as the Gollum of a man at the check-in at LAX had suggested... Eventually, the line-up of people began to move and I slowly made my way to the front of the giant aircraft. I proceeded through first-class before making it to the exit, appalled at the excess these people were afforded. While in steerage-class, we were cramped to 10 across (three on the sides and four in the middle of the craft), in first, there was a mere 6. The seats were grotesquely large and the amount of leg-room those able to afford the costly fare were afforded was mind-boggling. Classism at its finest. Those with means travel in the ut-most comfort. I could only imagine the luxuries they were offered throughout the flight. At in excess of $8,000 a ticket (I had checked when booking) I suppose these extravagances were the least one would expect, however.

We proceeded through the airport towards our baggage. Soon after debarking, we found ourselves being forced through a particular man-made bottle-neck in the airport. Australian customs agents were present with a dog. Stupendous, a drug-sniffing dog. Thin lines had been taped onto the floor and we were ushered through, one at a time, so that Rusty, the drug-dog could sniff us for elicits. I had previously decided that packing contraband was probably ill-advised. Still, I became concerned that the dog would smell something on me, perhaps from contact with some sort drug days or weeks earlier. Had I ever carried anything in the bag I now had with me? I exchanged nervous laughs with the Yanks from the flight about the preposterous drug check the Australians were subjecting us to. What was this? Did they think that because the flight originated from California that we would all be carrying marijuana or cocaine? The Americans are the ones waging the "war on drugs", wouldn't they have found anything as we passed through security state-side? Maybe there was a large bag of weed under the floor of my carry-on that I had somehow overlooked. What if someone at LAX had planted cocaine on me with the hopes of reclaiming it once out of the Melbourne airport? Anything was possible at this point. I glanced at the Americans - they appeared just as concerned as I did. What if the dog took a particular liking to me? I began wishing I had packed a bag of pepperoni with me so that, when the dog went wild on me as I passed, I could pull it out and we'd all have a good laugh at the silly pup who was just hungry for meat. Despite my gravest concerns, the dog passed me with only a sniff and I proceeded to Australian Customs.

Customs at the Melbourne airport was quite back-logged. Australian and New Zealand nationals were allowed to proceed through a special line which merely required you to pass through some sort of facial recognition check-point before proceeding to their baggage. For the rest of us, a long wait was in store. I have always detested passing through Customs. I've never encountered any problems, it simply takes far too long. Always too many people and not enough agents. The walls were plastered with adverts about how Melbourne's airport was undergoing "$300 million in upgrades" and how there would be more customs agents amongst other improvements! A lot of good that did me right now. I was stuck with hundreds of smelly people who had just gotten off of 15+ hour flights. I was suddenly aware of how dirty I felt. My hair felt like a greasy rag used to slop sauce on ribs at a barbeque and my pits smelled the high heavens - it was embarrassing. I needed a shower. I needed a shower immediately.

I eventually found myself in front of a customs agent. She asked me a few questions and I answered. I asked how I would go about getting a hard-copy of my working-traveler’s visa I had previously been granted. Cleared through, I was referred to an Immigrations officer who escorted me to an office. I knew what the purpose of my detour was, but could only imagine what others must have been thinking. Generally, when people are brought to the 'side-offices' something has gone terribly wrong. I had followed this woman in good faith - assuming I would get a hard-copy of my visa attached to my passport. Instead, I was provided with directions of where to find the Immigration office in Melbourne. Apparently only this office was equipped to offer such service - no printers allowed in the airport! Whatever. I took my map and was on my way.

The conveyor to retrieve luggage was predictably crowded. I squeezed my way to the front and waited. I was almost shocked to find my two pieces of luggage had made the trip and it didn't appear anyone had removed my locks and rummaged around. Things were certainly looking up since the fiasco in L.A., 15 hours earlier. I was herded around for a time as I attempted to exit the airport. Customs agents approached me with an unrelenting tenacity, demanding to see my customs card, as if to ensure I hadn't somehow slipped through the military check-point I had waited so patiently to pass through earlier. I eventually just started waving the thing around at anyone who appeared even remotely interested in what I was doing until I succeeded in finding the exit.

Once out I began the search for my ride. I was to meet Gail, my relative here in Australia. I’m still unsure what our relation would be called. She is my dad’s cousin – their mothers (my grandmother on my dad’s side) are sisters. Later, Gail and I would decide to simply refer to each other as aunt and nephew – probably incorrect strictly speaking, but far more convenient.

I soon realized that I had been ushered out some bizarre side-exit – different than the exit the majority of people were using, and not the one that had the masses of people waiting for the travelers coming off the plane. Gail and I had previously exchanged pictures, specifically for this moment, but my current path was taking me directly behind all these people leaving me unable to identify any recognizable face – only the backs of heads. Happily, I soon spotted a sharply dressed woman in a business suit, with a very recognizable face, walking towards me. She had spotted me as well and I greeted my first contact in this new country. We exchanged brief pleasantries and proceeded towards the parkade. We each made small-talk on the way to the car, attempting to mask the awkwardness of having just met someone with whom you know you will be spending time with in the future, but really know nothing about. Grateful for her having offered to pick me up, I refused Gail’s offerings to assist carry my baggage – no need to burden her further I thought. I soon began to regret my weak attempt at chivalry. The parkade proved to be quite a distance away and my bags weren’t altogether light. Still, I continued to refuse her attempts at assistance – at this point it had turned more into a matter of male pride than a concern over being a hassle. My arm felt like it was about to fall off.

We did eventually find the car and I loaded my baggage into the trunk. I made a move for the passenger-side door – so did Gail. I was briefly puzzled until I looked inside and saw the steering wheel – right, it’s all opposite here. I attempted a lame joke, deferring to my confusion over “their” system, and proceeded to the other side. The ride into the city was a tad un-nerving. Never having experienced driving on the left, all of Gail’s maneuvers were initially a tad unsettling. I decided to simply enjoy the new scenery and sat back in my chair. After a stop for gas (“petrol”, Gail corrected me) we arrived at the apartment on Drummond St. and we unloaded my things. I grew excited at the prospect of being able to bathe.


I found the apartment to be extremely nice, despite Gail’s attempts at modestly denying it was anything special. The space was instantly cluttered as I dumped my belongings everywhere. Gail suggested we go out and find some lunch which afforded me a chance to get a feeling for the neighbourhood. It was all terribly confusing but it had a nice feel. In very close proximity can be found parks, general stores, cafes, restaurants, a library and an array of boutiques. The location had the added bonus of being near the tram (street-cars for us North Americans) and bus routes. After a pleasant lunch Gail took us to see more of my relatives in another part of the city.

I bombarded her questions about the country, shamelessly extracting as much information from her as I could. She attempted to explain to me the game of Cricket, which proved more difficult than she anticipated. While the rules are understandably obvious to those familiar, to me it was entirely foreign. My only encounter with the sport up to that point was in hearing its name and assuming it was only a silly variant of baseball which used a preposterous looking bat. I was quickly corrected that this was untrue. Despite her best attempts at describing the sport and its rules I was left entirely confused. Learning the rules entailed learning an entirely new and complicated language. I learned that a game of cricket takes an entire five days to complete. How this was possible was beyond me. This begged so many questions: who attended these marathon games? How could one afford to attend a game of such extraordinary length? Did one have to take a week’s vacation if one wanted to attend a game in person? Who would want to? What was even more amusing was that despite the seemingly huge investment in time and understanding this game took, people were quite crazy about. I suspected I wouldn’t understand until I attended a game in person.

The remainder of the day passed quickly. I had initially anticipated my having to stave off exhaustion after the flight and time-changes but the energy of the day kept me going. I met Gail’s partner, John, who was just as friendly and as Gail. We had a pleasant supper at one of the local restaurants and returned home.

I was told that Melbourne endures four seasons worth of weather in one day and this was certainly true. It had been rather mild and overcast in the morning when I arrived. It proceeded to clear and was pleasantly warm throughout the balance of the afternoon. By the time evening came the clouds had returned and it was raining. I determined it would be a hopeless venture trying to plan what to wear in the morning. Upon returning home from our last meal, I quickly tired, the days adventures finally catching up with me. Day 1 came to a close.

Travelling to Australia - Los Angeles

Once we landed, I learned I had to find my way to an entirely different terminal than the one I was in. I wasn't exactly looking foward to this, especially given that our flight was late in arriving and I had less than two hours to check-in and make it to my flight. LAX's architects were kind enough to construct the different terminals such that they're all within walking distance, however, so the trek did not prove that difficult. Inside LAX's Tom Bradley Terminal, I found my way to the Qantas check-in booths and waited in line. The place was an absolute Zoo. By this time it was around 10:00 at night and all the long international flights were getting ready to leave.

The wait to check-in took far longer than it should have. On three separate occasions, cripples and old people were wheeled in front of us by clueless airport staff. These over-eager employees apparently felt that it just wasn't proper to let people required to sit in wheelchairs wait, while us exhausted and weak-in-the-legs standing folk proceeded in the order we had queued up in. No, that was just unfathomable as an option - these people needed to be ushered to the front of the line, lest they wait in their chairs in line, instead of at the gates. What the hell does it matter if they have to wait. I never understood the deference our society gives to certain people. I'm not saying slash the tires to their chairs, but don't assume that I'm going to be OK with you giving these people line-preference. After the third old person was urgently rushed to the check-in, in front of the rest of us waiting scum, I commented dryly to the gentleman behind me how I would have been better off had I broken both my legs before coming. I was growing tired and these afronts were beginning to try my patience. I was contemplating what I was going to yell at the next person who attempted such poppycockerey, when I was given the go-ahead to proceed to the next agent for check-in. Shame... I was almost looking forward to engaging the next unsuspecting employee in a battle over the appropriateness of giving certain people line-preference. Judging by the look of the people the airport hired for jobs such as assisting others in the commission of the social crime of queue-jumping, it wouldn't have been that difficult to secure myself a moral victory, if nothing else. Alas, I wasn't afforded such an opportunity. Instead, I was ushered to an over-eager looking fellow who was entrusted with the important job of securing me a comfortable seat on the hellishly long flight to come. I instantly knew our encounter would not go well. This fellow presented himself as far too happy and cheerful, especially given the hour and number of people he'd be required to serve that night. I instantly saw through his fake presentation and detested him. I cautiously asked about my seating options. "None" was essentially the answer I was given. Flight was fully booked and I wasn't early enough to secure any good seats. Bollocks. My options: a seat, mid-way up the plane "in the middle", or a window seat at the back of the plane. The latter option was presented in such a way that necessitated further inquiry. I questioned him about the seat at the back. His answer: "Well, it's near the washrooms!". I was insulted that this baffoon felt he could ease my worries by tempting me with toilet-proximity. I countered that this wasn't necessarily a good thing - hinting that I wasn't a fool and prompting him for an honest answer about the state of seating-affairs. No honesty was forthcoming, instead he continued to present himself with the same over-eager deamour we had started out with minutes earlier. I could tell he disliked my questions. He was by far the quickest agent and I was interfering with his ability to 'whip-out' tickets and get through the line. Douchebag. Resigned to the fact that I wasn't going to get any honesty about of this little man, I indicated I'd take the window seat. Any liquids? No, just some sanitizer-gel and less than 100ml. Fine - on to security.

The line-up to get through security at LAX was appalling. The sheer volume of people they were trying to herd through the checkpoints was staggering. Through a variety of signs posted around they kindly reminded people that comments about bombs and terrorism probably weren't a good idea and would lead to such unpleasant an experience once they had dragged you away that they weren't even permitted by law to describe it on the signs. Obvious perhaps, but I appreciated the reminder - such topics were exactly the type of conversation I was likely to venture with any unsuspecting person willing to listen, given my mood at the time and general dislike for the overly-secure environment I was being forced into. The entire experience was beginning to take its toll. When it was finally my turn to go through the check-point the usually easy process degenerated into quite a mess. I successfully removed my laptop from its case and placed it in a separate bin, as had been instructed robotically by one of the guards ad-nauseum to the mass of people waiting in line. However, it didn't occur to me that I should do anything beyond that. I walked through the X-ray with watch and other metal accessories on. I usually don't beep when I go through these things so hearing the machine sound the alarm against me threw me into quite a bit of confusion. I was asked to remove anything I had on and walk through the machine again. Around 10 seconds had passed by this time, but already a line of people formed behind me. As I began placing my metal objects in a bin, the line decided to proceed through me. I suddenly found myself forcing my bin on the conveyor to the X-ray, in front of other people who clearly believed me to be jumping the line. I was so frazzled at this point I couldn't be bothered to explain my actions. I pushed my way in front of a portly woman waiting to go through the machine - fuck her - I needed to get out of this zoo. No beeping this time and I proceeded to pick up my bags.

To my horror, a security guard was waiting with my bag. "Is this your bag, sir?" he asked. Thankfully he didn't appear to be one of the angry guards I had encountered in Vancouver - he was just doing the job. I replied in the affirmative. He indicated to me that my bag had raised suspicion. Marvelous. He asked if he could go through my bag? Not much choice, so sure. He asked me not to touch the bag while he was going through it. Upon opening my bag he immediately withdrew a water-bottle. What dreadful luck. I had forgotten I had purchased that in addition to my Boston Creams and coffee back in Vancouver. I wasn't sure what this meant, but I was quite certain I was going to be escorted to one of those side rooms and subject to the things they weren't allowed to post on the signs. He began his scripted speech, outlining my options. 1) I can be escorted, now, from the airport. Great, these options are starting off well... 2) I can proceed out of the security zone, dispose of the water and then come back and go through this whole thing again. Better, but still shit. 3) He could dispose of the water for me. "YES - do that" I practically yelled - extatic that they offered such an option. What a generous man. What a generous system. What a generous country to allow those who have erred, such an easy way out! I can't imagine them not offering this option, but at the moment I felt like I had been afforded a Get-Out-Of-Jail card. With that, he took my water and wished me well. I quickly gathered my bags and continued on my way. It was around then that, thankfully, my pants fell down. I had forgotten my belt. I proceeded back to the conveyor and retrieved it - I was walking away when I remembered my other bin in which I had placed all my metal I had forgotten to remove prior. I was clearly falling apart. The whole process was more than I was able to take at the moment. I double and tripple checked my mental checklist for my belongings and then proceeded to the gate.

I truly dislike LAX and hope to never return. The place is simply far too busy. The crowds of people did not let up and indeed only worsened as I proceeded to the gate where I'd wait for my plane. I miraculously found a seat and began to de-stress. By this time I was quite exhausted and was starting to feel sick. Great - that's exactly what I needed. An announcement advised us that our plane was late and our departure time had been pushed back an hour - even better. I played Texas Hold 'Em on my BlackBerry to pass the time. I was up a few thousand dollars when two of the computer players, after a few dizzingly fast hands, each possessed in excess of $20k. The game pretty much went to shit at that point. No point playing against people with such buying-power. The next hour passed without leaving me with much recollection of what transpired. Eventually we were allowed to board. I began growing concerned that the when the little bastard at the check-in said "at the back" he meant right at the back. That's exactly what I needed now - a seat that didn't recline one bit. Thankfully, this wasn't so. I found my way to my window seat and wanted to pass out. It was after midnight at this point and I just wanted to sleep. The problem was I hadn't eaten in quite a while and wanted to partake in the meal they were surely going to serve soon after take-off. Because of the delay in boarding, we were now in competition with other planes to take-off which further delayed our departure. The flight-attendants began passing around little cards which described the services to be offered throughout the flight. It appeared that my meal wasn't going to be served until around three hours in. Proposterous - who wanted to eat at 3:00 in the morning.

I had previously decided, thanks to a helpful suggestion, that I would take some Gravol, pass out for quite a while and wake-up with the balance of the flight having been slept away. I was growing anxious about the decision that stood before me: do I wait, eat, then sleep... or sleep now and be dammed with the meal. I opted for the latter. I wasn't sure how much longer I could stay awake and the Americans behind me, busy trying to flirt with an Australian girl on her way home, were beginning to annoy me. I popped two Gravol, pulled the eye-covers they provided for the passengers over my eyes and attempted to sleep. I soon realised why the gremlin at the check-in was so hesitant about offering "the back". Being behind the 747's four large turbines proved to be a deafening experience. The roar of the engines at full-throttle was staggering - no way I'd be able to sleep with this racket. I attempted to close my eyes and coax myself to sleep with fantasies of me one day seeing that toad of a man at the check-in, who conned me into getting this seat, and me getting my revenge on him.

A while later I was awoken to voices and the smell of food. The one voice was the flight-attendant debating whether or not to ask the gentleman next to me to wake me and offer me food. The man at my right began slightly nudging me to try and stir me. If I had not been awake already his feeble attempt at rousing me would have accomplished nothing. I begrudgingly moved around and indicated I'd take the chicken dish and a mini-bottle of Merlot - the wine would surely mix with the Gravol and encourage further sleep. This was of course contrary to the package's gravest warnings, but I wasn't going to be operating heavy machinery for a time so I decided to take the gamble anyway. The chicken was fine, although a tad fatty. The accompanied couscous was tasty enough save for the raisins someone had decided would be a good idea to mix in. The mixed vegetables were mushy but edible. I ate them mainly out of guilt for not having any greens that day. I finished off with a brownie which I thoroughly enjoyed and returned to my sleeping position. I couldn't be bothered to wait for them to return to take my tray - I was finished before some had even been served their food. With 400 people on board it was going to be awhile before anyone returned. I was becoming anxious of not being able to fall-back alseep, leaving me vulnerable to exhausion once we landed and horrible jet-lag because of it...

I awoke a time later. I wasn't sure how much time had passed but I didn't think it was enough. I checked my watch. I wasn't really sure when I had fallen asleep but I was pretty sure I had just slept for 8 hours - success! I adjusted the TV on my chair to the GPS option to see how far along we'd come. It claimed we had been flying for 11 hours and had 9 hours to go. This didnt' seem right. We were somewhere over the Pacific, precariously positioned thousands of miles from both North America and Australia. Images of the Discovery show from the day's earlier flight came to mind. The screen showed us travelling at 30,000 feet and 900km/h. Amazing how at nearly a thousand kilometers an hour, the flight still takes as long as it does. Such a giant planet we live on. The screen was inundating me with data about times at our departure location and arrival location, our estimated time of arrival, time in the air and other such figures. I was still groggy and the numbers weren't adding up. I was fairly sure I had managed to get a goodly amount of sleep though. The man to my right was busy watching a movie on his screen. A veritable machine this man was. I don't believe he shut his eyes once the entire flight - eyes constantly glued to his screen. The airplane was dark and quiet. The annoying Yanks behind me had finally given up seducing the poor Australian girl. The rest of the flight passed without incident. I slept more and was awoken at one point by fairly severe turbulence. Again pushing the images of the Discovery show from my mind, I instead just enjoyed the ride.

Breakfast eventually came and along with it the knowledge that the flight was nearing an end. I hadn't really moved in 13 hours. Concerned about the possibility of blood clots, I feebly shifted myself around in my seat but soon gave up. I decided I'd rather risk a heart-attack than have someone see me making these strange and suspicious movements in my chair - who knows what conclusions the man to my right would draw. The attendant offered me a choice between cereal and vegetable Frittata. I wasn't altogether sure what Frittata was and the menu suggested it was some unpleasant vegetable dish, but I opted for it anyway in the hope that it would be more substantial than mere cereal. I was relieved to find it was basically an omelette. In a rare bout of culinary adventurousness I tried the fried spinach I discovered. This proved to be amongst the most disgusting things I've ever tasted. The attendant offered me coffee or tea. I asked for coffee to which she replied "what kind?". Delighted that I had options I asked what varieties they stocked. She looked confused and again offered me tea or coffee. I had clearly not been heard the first time and sheepishly yelled for coffee over the still-present roar of the engines. Little did I know this would be the last coffee I would have for some time.

After much adventure the plane landed - I had finally arrived in Australia and Day 1 of my trip.

Travelling to Australia - Vancouver

I suppose my trek to Australia began at the Vancouver airport (thanks for the drop-off, Caitlin!). The airport wasn't all that busy and the gentleman at the check-in counter was exceedingly friendly. Things started off well.. for the first 10 minutes or so anyway. My flight to Melbourne had one stop-over in Los Angeles, so, as I should have expected, I needed to go through American customs.

The Americans make you go through their customs on the Canadian side, I guess to stream-line things once you land. That's fine, I'd prefer to do my waiting during the time before my flight anyway than after I land. Predictably, the whole experience was rather frightful. I was typing on my BlackBerry to pass the time when one of the security guards roaming around barked at me that I wasn't allowed to use cellphones while in line. I resisted the urge to comment that a BlackBerry wasn't a "cellphone", as if this would have exempted me from the rule. Instead, I cocked my eye and gave him a confused look. He pointed to one of the 50 signs plastered everywhere in the room that I had clearly overlooked that displayed a cellphone with a red circle and thick red line through it. This didn't make any sense to me so I commented "well that's proposterous" and gave him an incredulous stare. He didn't appear to appreciate that comment but feigned he hadn't heard and instead glared at me and said "Pardon?". I decided fighting with the US Department of Homeland Security about the use of cellphones or other devices while in line AND while on their soil (the whole area and the gates past it are US property and soil apparently) likely wasn't the battle I needed to fight right at that time. As such, I pretended I hadn't said anything and replied with "I'm putting it in my pocket" and did just that. Satisfied, the thug continued with his patrol. It's amazing how the Americans are able to create an atmosphere of fear wherever they chose. The whole room just gave you a feeling of walking on nails. The line was slow, the room dark and in the distance a drill was going off that sounded like there was a prison break. This didn't stop for the entire half-hour I waited in line. To top it off, the guard kept yelling at people to proceed to the customs agent at "Number 8". I can only assume it was the angle at which he was standing, but the rest of us in line could clearly see that agent number 8 was busy, each of the five separate times he must have yelled at the next person in line to go there. Being the stooge that he was, however, he didn't bother to actually go check why people were ignoring him. Rather, he just yelled for a bit then quieted down.

Once through Customs, I proceeded to a conveyor belt where everyone was simply dumping their luggage. I'm used to dropping off my luggage at the check-in, but that's not how it worked here. They tag your bags at check-in, but then force you to drag them around until you reach this conveyor 45 minutes later. I was a bit hesitant about putting my luggage on this thing... Where did it go? Was there another conveyor I should be using? I queried the clearly bored gentleman sitting near the device to ask if this was the right place. This man was so clearly bored with his life at the moment that even human contact, a source of reprieve from his monotonous task, wasn't enough to bring him out of his trance. He muttered something about how I shouldn't worry about it and stared off. Seeing no other alternatives I entrusted my bags to the conveyor, gravely concerned I wouldn't see them again...

The remainder of my time prior to my flight was spent waiting at the gate. Two parents and their murder of children decided that across from me would be the ideal spot to sit, much to my dismay. I really don't like children and this lot were especially loud and energetic. I decided then was the right time to get my last Canadian donught and coffee from the Tim Horton's across the way as I could then relocate myself elsewhere, away from the children, without appearing rude. I indulged in two Boston Creams,a coffee and a bottle of water. I returned to the gate and sat well away from everyone.

The rest of my wait was fairly peaceful until the lot at the airport bar, right across from me, started with their fourth or fifth drink. I had met two of them in line at Customs. We had shared sentiments about the "Police State" nature of our wait. The one was wearing far too much perfum and I had spotted her with the group at the bar only after I had smelled her presence earlier. The group was getting a bit too loud and you could tell the flight-attendants, who were waiting with us until the plane arrived, weren't looking foward to dealing with them during the flight. The flight-attendants were all, predictably, French. Good luck finding any Anglo employees on a Canadian flight (it was an Air Canada flight). Apparently the Quebecois are the only ones who ever bother to learn Canada's other official language.

Eventually, we were allowed to board. I never understood why people get all antsy in their pantsy when they start calling out the rows who may board. 1) The flight isn't going to leave without you; 2) It's assigned seating - maybe people forget that. The first one in line doesn't get the best seat. The only thing they win is a chance to sit in their seat on the plane until everyone else gets to theirs; 3) the seats on the plane blow. Why would you rush to go sit in them when you can instead lay across a row of chairs in the airport, if you wanted. I decided to use the time to go to the washroom. It turned out to be quite a trek to the nearest one. By the time I returned there were only a few people left to board. Perfect timing. As I proceeded to my seat, I gave a mocking smile to those who had rushed to board first and were clearly already uncomfortable in their chairs. Much to my delight I had the entire row to myself. This allowed me to spread out and afforded a fairly comfortable three hours to LAX. The flight itself was uneventful. Air Canada now has TVs on all the seats (on this flight anyway) and satellite TV to go with it. I ended up on the Discovery channel and stupidly began watching a show about a commercial plane being shot down in Iraq - perhaps an ill-advised choice given my precarious position, 30,000 feet in the air. Curious to know how it ended, however, I ended up watching the entire show until its end an hour later. By the end I was quite anxious about my situation and nearly cried when the crew in the show managed to land their craft safetly (and miraculously). I prayed our pilot was equally good at his job. Of course, everything was fine. Besides dozing, reading and exchanging flirtatious glances with the one flight-attendant who had taken to looking and smiling at me whenever she passed, the flight was mostly uneventful. We landed in Los Angeles.