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.