I am not really an anxious traveler or, at least, I consider my anxieties to be normal. I have travelled by myself on numerous occasions. I always get there in good time and am yet to forget my passport. Although I did once leave it on a train in Poland but my mate’s A-Level German and some kind staff rescued me in my hour of need.
The alarm goes off at quarter to five. I labelled it ‘fly you fool’ – just a small joke designed to provide a second’s distraction from my impending move to the other side of the world. My shower is brief even though I am keenly aware it will be a while before the next one. I put on the comfortable outfit I laid out a mere five hours before and zip up my suitcases. With great care taken to not wake the dog, I haul my enormous luggage down the narrow stairs. My kindly uncle checks I’m alright. We get in the car and set off for Heathrow once I’ve checked my passport is in my bag. I do it again twenty minutes later just in case it has suddenly disappeared. My uncle does a good job of distracting me with conversation and then my parents FaceTime me from Mexico. Good luck and safe travels. Familiar words by now.
We arrive. A big squeeze from my uncle and I thank for him for being so generous. I wheel my suitcases through the January drizzle and into Terminal 4. I spy the Etihad queue and head that way, weaving in and out of bleary-eyed travelers and lift-givers. In the queue I decide that I have definitely packed the wrong combination of clothes and that I have surely exceeded the weight allowance. Turns out I had a whole kilogram to spare. Could have brought those trainers after all. One of my suitcases is deemed not sufficiently ‘hard’ enough (no offence taken) and I am sent to the excess baggage lane. It is closed but no panic required. I spot another one further down the terminal and trundle over. The bag is tagged and moves along the conveyor belt. I have the familiar desire to launch myself on there too just to see the machinations of the system but, as usual, I resist.
As I approach security, I briefly lambast myself for not putting my toiletries in a clear plastic bag in advance. It literally does not matter but I chalk it down as a failure. The queue at 6am is swift and the only hitch is my rucksack getting double checked. I wrack my brains to think what could have triggered the extra search. Nothing is confiscated and the security employee is not bothered that one of my toiletries didn’t fit in the plastic bag. I put my tray back in its rightful place because I was raised right and have been to an airport before.
I’m through and I check the screen for gate information. It is a considerable while until it is revealed so I scan the map for a source of breakfast and settle on Wetherspoons. The airport is quiet and people-watching opportunities are scant. However, some sights are perennial…
- Old man wearing a blazer for a long-haul flight
- Velour tracksuits and family set of Louis Vuitton luggage
- A dad staring intently at the gate information screen and checking his watch with alarming frequency
- A mum handing out passports to her squadron of children
- One of those children picking a terrible moment to need the toilet
The gates are announced and fortunately it is a short stroll to the allotted chairs. I read some of my book in between scrolling and stealing glances at my fellow passengers. A far-too-chirpy-for-8am airport employee asks if I’ll answer some questions for her survey on how people get to Heathrow. I concur and give her the dull details she seeks. She is very friendly and bids me farewell. In that time, the first and business class passengers have been called up to board. They sort of look how I expect them to. A wave of envy passes through me at the thought of their comfy seats but I tell myself that this first leg of seven hours to Abu Dhabi will be very manageable.
Final passport checks done and I’m in my seat. I picked an aisle seat of course. Easy route to the toilet and an excuse to stretch my legs if someone in my row needs to get past me. Better that than having to inconvenience strangers when I need an anxious wee. Besides, I can still see out of the window anyway. I am provided with a blanket and a pillow, the latter of which is too big to put anywhere comfortably. Within minutes a dull ache appears in my left hamstring. This feels very unjust given how long I will be sat in this position. I do my best to ignore it and start scrolling through the film selection.
A few rows back there are some mega-lads from Essex who I learn, not by choice, are on their way to Thailand. They are very loud and boisterous and bedecked in different flavours of the same branded attire. The film I put on just about drowns them out. On the flight there is a function where you can call and text other seats. My viewing of Trap (terrible) is interrupted by a call from 58C. I do some quick calculations and realise this is one of the mega-lads. I reject the first few calls before deciding just to let them ring out. I strain my ears to see if there is any sniggering. They give up after about five minutes. Coincidentally, the group are later warned they will no longer be served any alcohol if they don’t settle down.
In front of me a woman in her early fifties snoozes gently and I spot her partner, sat in the adjacent aisle seat, using the text function to write ‘I love you x’ and send it to her. What a sweet use of modern technology I think to myself. A lovely surprise for her to wake up to. However, a not-so-small part of me really wanted him to accidentally send it to the wrong seat. A little light entertainment for the journey. They do actually have a brief argument later on and I feel partially guilty for some reason.
The hours pass with relative ease and we touchdown in Abu Dhabi. I leave the Essex natives in my wake and find a bathroom to freshen up in. I read some well-wishing messages from friends and family before grabbing an unnecessary snack. I opt for a Lays flavour I’ve not seen before (‘French Cheese’) and send a picture to my mate. Such is our friendship that she receives the picture with great enthusiasm. The crisps are nothing special and I wash them down with overpriced water. Through to the gate I go and find a spot to read my book (look at Instagram) and listen in to the Aussie accents I am surrounded by. Acclimatisation starts now. One little boy escapes the clutches of his tired parents before getting stuck in between two rows of seats. Twenty seconds of high-pitched wailing occur before he is swept up by his slightly embarrassed father.
Different sections of the plane are called up to board and I once again take my seat (you know where). My heart sinks a little when the pilot announces the journey time of thirteen and a half hours. I knew this information already but it hits a little differently when you have been travelling since the early hours. As I boot up Speak No Evil (James McAvoy is very intense) tiny feet kick the back of my seat like an underpowered machine gun. I take a deep breath and ignore it. It happens a couple more times through the flight but my irritation subsides with the realisation that the assailant’s mother has bravely (i.e. foolishly) taken three small children on a long-haul flight.
My plan was to stay awake the whole time. Partly because I can’t really sleep sitting up and partly because I don’t want to disturb anybody with my snoring. But mostly because I arrive in Sydney in the evening and snoozing on the plane would get me off to a bad start. The flight drags in places. I succumb to sleep for an hour or so. On one of my visits to the toilet I absent-mindedly stretch while waiting. I cannot believe it. I have become the man that needs to stretch on a plane.
After what seems like a few lifetimes the plane comes to a halt in Sydney. My new home! A big deal but not important enough to stop me fretting about whether my eSim is going to kick in. It duly does and I fire off some messages. The tired cohort of passengers traipses off the plane and heads to immigration. I am surprised by the smoothness of the process given the country’s strict reputation. I dash to the loo to check out what state I’m in (I think I look quite good considering). A bit greasy, sure, but what can you do. I make a beeline for the luggage carousel, convincing myself that my bags will come out last. I am tired enough that I can’t properly check the location of my AirTag so therefore conclude that my bag must have been lost. Of course, the two suitcases arrive shortly within seconds of one another. People stand too close to the belt as ever (a long-standing pet hate of mine) but I get my goods.
The screens talk of having to declare shoes if they have dirt on them. Should I declare my mildly battered trainers that may have a few crumbs of mud affixed to them? No! I follow the crowd and plough on through to Arrivals.
You know the opening scene of Love Actually? I walk into that. Cuddle central. Family reunions all over the place. As if I am being mocked for flying away from my own loved ones. Best not to think like that though.
I scan the crowd for my parents’ friends who are generously taking me in while I find my feet in Sydney. They are nowhere to be seen but then, as if directed by Richard Curtis, they suddenly appear out of nowhere. Warm, familiar faces. My body relaxes a little.
I know I have been awake for far too many hours. Yet, I have not seen these friends for many years so I am energised by a lovely chat in the car. Get to the house. Say hi to the dog. Bags in the room and a timely shower. An enormous portion of pasta followed by ice cream. Wolfed down with ease. An Australian Open match that is on at a normal time. Exhaustion evades me but I slope off when the time is right. No spiders under the covers. Time to rest.
The sleep is deep but I wake up less refreshed than I’d hoped. Never mind. A new chapter awaits.
Great to hear of your travels!
Sorry to hear you were the near victim of mega-lad 'banter' ....
I think there could be a crime thriller plot line somewhere in that errant seat text idea!
Looking forward to your next update...
You are such a great writer James. I look forward to hearing about your travels