Putting the ‘Long’ into Long Haul
Well, 2022 is certainly shaping up to be a big year of travel! Our beautiful Miss Molly, as part of her Art Teaching degree, was fortunate enough to have been selected to go to the World Biennale art exhibition in Venice and Documenta, a contemporary art exhibition (that only happens every five years) in Kassel, Germany. She’d planned a couple of weeks either side to gallivant around Europe and have a fabulous holiday. Due to unforeseen circumstances, a couple of friends were not able to come so, in true Steve Bradbury style, I have been lucky enough to be her stand-in travel buddy! I’m so excited to be spending this time away with my beautiful girl!
Amid recent reports of “airport chaos” and urgings to leave plenty of time before take off, we decided we should probably aim to get to the airport with 3 hours up our sleeves - which would be all well and good at a reasonable hour but not ideal when you are scheduled for a 6am departure. Suddenly our prospective chauffeurs - Ross & Sam - were not so keen. With a hearty Uber vs Taxi dinner time debate (let’s face it, no-one wants to be faffing around on buses and trains at that time of day) Sam was adamant an Uber would be cheaper, but we decided a taxi might be more reliable, locking one in for an eye-watering 2am pick-up , and as it turns out, an eye-watering fee. In hindsight, that $87 Uber would have been a great idea. You were right Sam. There, we said it.
Exiting the expensive cab, into the chilly, pitch-black wee hours of the morning, faced with a queue that already snaked around the designated poles and well out into the airport, we realised we weren’t alone in thinking we should leave a 3 hour buffer. We joined the long line but soon realised, this line was for those who had checked-in online. Rather than expediting the process, checking-in online had made it a WAY longer wait. Thankfully, we were yet to check-in so were able to sail past the crowds to the tiny, separate queue, straight to the check-in counter. Blessed is the less-organised traveller.
Despite the hordes of eager passengers, the security department stuck closely to their 4am start time, leaving a lengthy lineup of bleary-eyed travellers sitting on the airport floor.
Since we’d booked separately, Molly and I weren’t seated together and consequently had very different flight experiences. I sat next to a gorgeous lady, Gabriella, originally from Hungary, heading back to her homeland with her adult son, for her mum’s funeral. We laughed together, cried together, had hot flushes together and generally bonded over the plethora of things we had in common. She was great! We exchanged numbers and have vowed to hang out again when we’re both back in Sydney.
Molly on the other hand, had the flight from hell, contending with a painful kid sitting in front of her who found great pleasure in turning around and hanging over the seat, playing havoc with her touch screen, hands all over it pushing buttons, and incessantly asking “what are you doing?”, “what are you watching?” To add to her fun, the guy behind her tapped on her seat every time she reclined to sleep, even in the middle of the night, complaining he was getting squashed and the two friends she sat sandwiched between, chatted to each other across her while she was trying to snooze. They did compliment Molly on her parkour skills, waking temporarily at one stage while she was mid-flip, extracting herself expertly over a sleeping body in an effort to reach the aisle.
Arriving in Dubai, we were informed it was a whopping 39 degrees and as we sat in a hot plane on the tarmac while the air conditioning technician fiddled with the faulty system, we felt every one of those degrees.
Before we knew it, the plane temperature was restored back to Arctic levels and this time seated side-by-side, we were winging our way to London town.
At Heathrow, Molly breezed through customs in the fast queue while my automatic-passport-machine-reader-thingy malfunctioned, sending me into a half-hour wait for the one customs official on duty. From somewhere deep in the queue behind me, as patience from my fellow long haul flight passengers was waning, a very English voice piped up with a sing-song sledge: “Bor-ing!”, sending the solo customs man into a flustered spin. He eventually called for back-up though he needn’t have worried because by the time we reached the baggage claim, the carousel was still empty. The bags were coming out one at a time, in ten minute intervals, much to the dismay of the gathered crowd. There’s much to be said for having a bag that stands out, as mine had many, many clones. I had about a thousand false alarms, running forward to claim what I thought was my bag, only to find it was an imposter. We made friends as we kept throwing the rejects back on the belt, everyone chuckling “not that one either!” An hour later (crikey) we were reunited with our luggage and were given amazing instructions (and travel tips) from the lovely Nigel, on precisely how we should ‘tube’ it to our hotel. Following his instructions to a tee, we minded the gaps, stifled our giggles every time the announcer said “all stations to Cockfosters” and managed to stumble through the doors of our hotel, a little shy of 1am, totally and utterly exhausted.
