Just when I thought the Simple Pleasures Tour '08 would be a nice calm trip, havoc and the W&W (weird and wonderful) strike again. And I haven't even been 12 hours out of Sydney....
The Airport Security checkpoint and I have a love/hate relationship. More so the latter. There's probably a Caution poster with my photo plastered on it at every international security check point. Without fail I will get pulled aside, screened with the over-sized Paddle Pop baton, bags searched and contents questioned. My most memorable safety check was in Paris where for half an hour I managed to sustain a debate (in broken French) about the validty of classifying jam as a liquid.
I was team negative obviously.
I won for the record, only after letting the guard tell me about his trip to Croatia which I could care less about and slipped the jar back into my bag.
So you think I would have learned my lesson; being: never transport things in jars for my mother again.
But no. Being the wonderfully fantastic daughter I am, my mother's request for active Manuka Honey with an Unique Manuka Factor of 16 plus was granted. As far as the Australian Secuirty Check point.
Would it not have been for my turbulent history with the screening scanners I would have just let it go. But I made the ultimate mistake of assertively commenting "You think I'm going to blow up a plane with damn honey?"
Rule no#35 of travelling post-September 11. Never mention connotations of combustion and aircraft in the same sentence in public.
Off to the big bad boss I went, sitting behind an ego-inflating desk similar to those seen in courtroom dramas. Thankfully I managed to talk my way out of it. That or the fact that a tall blonde with copious amounts of rice cakes and banana bars would probably not pose a threat to border security.
Apart from the little mishap, things were seeming to shape up. I got my requested exit seat, with a spare one next to me. For economy class this is the next best thing to luxury; after having three or four seats to yourself, considered the golden economy ticket.
But of course my bubble had to burst at some point. Standing at check-in earlier, I saw a woman with a baby at the 'Morning Calm' desk. Probably an expensive rip off not-economy-not-businness-class alternative. But I remember thinking, thankyou thankyou thankyou and sucked in to the not-quite-businness people.
Not the case. Who should sit accross the aisle from moi but said baby and mother. It started crying, and the plane hadn't even moved from port. Grand.
If there's one thing I'm passionate about is banning children from flights. In fact I'm seriously considering starting the Skies without Cries Club. It was inflight entertainment I did not ask for. Then, 3 hours into the flight I discovered I had the privilege of Surround Sound. Another child's poop smeared derriere was planted 5 rows behind me. I had premonitory dreams of sticking earplugs into their gob shites. Cruel thoughts I know, but being stuck for 10 hours with not one but TWO screaming suckers is possibly the closest thing to hell.
With the possibility that Skies Without Cries may not go down too well with some members of the flying public, I then had glorifying thoughts of inventing soundproof children's cabins. Perspex boxes that you can place the baby in so it can cry and cry to it's hearts content, with a little hole for inserting food and water as required. Oh how evil, mwahahahaha......
If there's another thing I'm passionate about in regards to the flying experience is plane food. So far QANTAS is the only airline that actually serves edible produce. The clockwork in my mind started to deviously turn and I figured that requesting a special meal may attract some attention to the preparation of the food. I requested Gluten Free. Sure enough the stewardess came and placed a big yellow sticker on my seat and three others infront of me. Yes tha's right, we were getting meals specially prepared to our dietary needs.
To clarify this misconception,Gluten Free apparently means two rice cakes, a swab of jam and butter and two pieces of pineapple. Needless to say I had two packets of rice cakes in my bag. I didn't need more. I would be shitting rice cakes, literally.
Obviously I had downgraded. I knew I shoud have asked for Kosher. The Jews would never stand for this.
With my peripheral vision I watched the toddler enjoy his steaming bowl of black bean stir fry, or rather wastefully smear it on his face, as if in spite.
I was extremely disappointed when my lunch came without jam. Two rice cakes, butter and pineapple had to suffice. The lunch did come with an additional side meal. Of 3 florets of broccoli and cold rice with big bold writing on the side stating 'May contain traces of soy, gluten, dairy and nuts'. Enough said.
I got of flight KE122 tired, stuffed with rice and possibly constipated. I couldn't wait for a hot shower and a proper bed. Coming out of the arrivals terminal I could feel God playing spot the blonde. So this is alienation.
At the information desk, where my hotel was to come and collect me, a buzz of good denergy revived me as I helped an old Russian woman trying to communicate with 3 Korean officials, who obviously did not speak Russian. Again I thanked my smart smart parents for those Saturday Polish School lessons from hell when I was a kid.
Courtesy of the hotel I was picked up in a sleek little black bus they like to call limousines in South Korea. I wasn't objecting.
The Hotel was set amongst a narrow street of neon lights, and more neon lights. Even closed shutters couldn't block the flashing red and blue lights. I felt like I was in brothel town.
The dark room was quite nice, of what I could make out of it. None of the light switches worked which was only testament that the Gods Of My Luck (i.e. some divine power which acts as a filter for any good luck coming my way) were yet again on this trip.
I really needed to pee but the toilet was shrouded in darkness. Or rather toilet with rocket booster on one side and some kind of helmet- mask on the lid. Fudge it I needed to pee lights or no lights. My relief was slowly calming me down when the damn things started to beep at me. What did that mean?? Was it talkingto me?!? Was I not peeing in the correct place?? The beeps grew in annoying rhythm but there was no stopping my bursting bladder.
I went downstaris to reception amused. Apparently the magic trick was I had to put the keyring found on the room keys in a slot next to the front door which activated the electricity in the room. Ah of course. Why didn't I think of that?!?!?
In my frustration at the contraption I'd pressed every button on the rocket-launcher side pack and must have increased the seat temperature. I received a nice souvenir in the form of a burning, red ring on my derriere in the morning.
Off to Paris then Warsaw where I was hoping the W&W would hold off until.
