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.
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