Talking France

“No, here we say ‘bonjour’.”

I failed dismally in my first French interaction.  Worse, I didn’t even try. I went to the counter of the little ‘supermarche’ with some cheese, bread and a carton of I-hope-this-is-milk, smiled at the cashier, and witnessed my regular lessons, constant practice and good intentions pile up in a messy, self-conscious heap the moment I opened my mouth:
“Hullo!”

Dammit. Supermarche Guy told me how to say hello, followed with “We say ‘ca va’ here,” and proceeded to talk loudly, slowly and with gestures to drag me through the remainder of my linguistic disappointment. I gathered my cheese, bread and <sigh> lactose-free and scurried out, cursing myself in French. Which, since my iPad app didn’t cover swearing, was the same as English cursing, but with ‘le’ before each word.

Le bugger

Everyone in Paris speaks English. EVERYONE. There was one blip at the post office where the old girl replied to my ‘Parlez vous Anglais?’ with ‘A leetle’, but everyone else spoke my native tongue better than many of the natives I know.  And even she knew enough to get stamps on my postcards and direct me to the box to put them in without resorting to charades. My hotel booking was conducted entirely in slightly patronising English, my questions in le Musee du Militaire were answered in accented but word-perfect English, and waiters seemed to have agreed beforehand to answer my attempts at French with polite English that made it clear they weren’t interested in advancing my polylingual ambitions. I persisted nonetheless, simply because…well, I went to all that effort. I’d even rehearsed my little speech explaining myself, along the lines of “I’m from Australia, I only speak a little French. Dishwasher.” But the worst Parisian’s English was better than my petit Francais, so I was wondering why I bothered.

Things changed when I headed for Caen.

Now, Caen is a big town. It falls into that hundred-thousand size you don’t get much in Australia, most of us clumping in groups of three hundred, ten thousand or two million. Distance-wise, going there was like going from Perth to Collie, or perhaps Sydney to Newcastle and a bit. Culture-wise, it’s a bit more of a leap. There are the same cafes, the same quirky shops, the same little supermarches (I only saw one Australia-sized supermarket in Paris. Not as in ‘As big as Australia', but…ahh, you know). Traffic’s the same; fast, wide cars on slow, narrow streets made for a donkey pulling a cart made of haybales or whatever. The cathedral-to-human ratio is far higher (srsly, four cathedrals in sight of each other), but there were more tourists than worshippers in every one I visited. Anyway, smaller than Paris, but still pretty big.

One of Caen's fine cathedrals. Possibly not the straightest one.

First stop after I’d settled in was back to the train station to get tickets for my next leg. No different from a travel bureau elsewhere really; a queue, some counters, a bunch of timetable racks in no discernible order and a teeny bent old babushka in the queue who you KNOW is going to pay in coins. But one of the counters had a little Union Jack over it. The thought they were showing solidarity with their English neighbours didn’t cross my mind. The idea I was about to hit a linguistic hurdle did.

I make the front of the queue. ‘Ding’, friendly wave from old mate at one of the not-Union Jack counters. Making the leap, I call out, ‘Anglais?’ Well, I called out ‘OngLAY?’, because yeah, I am ALL about the accent here. And yes, it was gratifying that he understood my one-word sentence, smiled and gestured to Union Jack counter. She had just finished counting the copper from octogenarian shuffle-granny, so I stepped up and made with the ‘Bonjour!’

“’Ello sir, ‘ow can I yelp?’

Heh. Claire had an accent. And I had a plan. Wary of accidentally booking myself a train ride to Madagascar, I had written down the places, dates and directions of travel on my never-go-to-France-without-it leather-bound A5 notebook.

“I would like to do this please!”

Claire nodded. “Okey, we can do this.” The weird random typing that seems to comprise long-distance travel booking began. But only briefly; it seemed I’d posted her a challenge. My first leg to Thionville was easy, but I then wanted to go from there to Amsterdam. A distance of only four hundred or so kilometres north, but the direct route involved crossing three borders more often crossed by artillery fire than late-travelling Aussies. Claire tapped and frowned, then summoned a higher power.

“Henri? Moment?”

I missed the rapid-fire questions she launched at senior guy when he came to her aid, but I recognised the words ‘How’, ‘ Never booked this’ and ‘baba ganoush.’ The last one seemed unlikely, but I was still trying to mentally translate her ‘bonjour’ by the time she got there so I dunno, they might’ve been talking about lunch by then.

They conversed, in French. I heard some recognisable words, like ‘d’accord (DACK-ore)’, ‘deux billets (duh BEE-ay)’ and ‘Vienna (VEEwaitwhat?)’ There  were pauses to…not translate, but explain (“It is a tricky journey, we are looking for the best way”), then back to a private conversation I was twenty lessons away from understanding.

But they figured it out. And by the time we got there I’d learned how to properly pronounce ‘Caen’ (‘Caw’, but cut the ‘w’ sound real short), ‘Thionville’ (roughly how it looks, but they do this wonderful thing to the double ‘L’ that makes it sound like “teeON-vee-yuh’) and ‘Premiere classe’ (like it looks. Who cares; for some reason first class was cheaper than second, and I wanted to share my leg room bonanza.)

So it wasn’t really a French interaction. But it felt better than when I squibbed at the supermarche.

Caen and the greater Normandy region provided a few more language giggles. The guy leading a tour at Pointe du Hoc artillery battery going a mile a minute, calling the personnel bunkers ‘personal bankers’, and shells fired at it ‘artillery booms’. Old mate at Maisy battery (yes I went to a lot of batteries) launching into a French intro when I came in, then lapsing back to English with a broad Manchester accent when I went “Dawk?” Oh, and a real challenge at the next post office. Seems mail clerks aren’t hired for linguistic prowess (eh, I’m sure they’re amazing stamp lickers), and this time my “Parlay-voo?” was greeted with a sad shake and a “Non.” Naturally this wasn’t the ‘two postcards’ occasion, but the ‘three international parcels with things inside’ trip. Somehow we made our way through mail class, customs forms, sealing the parcels (a success here; I knew what ‘ferme’ meant! It’s the little wins) and paying (“DEEZ sank, CATruh vah euros.” Which I immediately interpreted as ‘Just use your credit card’). She had enough English words and I had enough French charades for us to get there in the end. As to whether I sent three parcels Australia-wards or delivered a random selection of gifts to needy families in Burkina Faso, only time will tell.

"So the Americans are artillery booming very much, but the Germans build bunkers very strengthly. They are deep inside, not dying, so the Americans are coming up the cliffs to stop them not dying in person!"

In any case, by the time I jumped the train to Thionville I felt like I was making progress.

You might have guessed what’s coming here. Paris is big, and everyone speaks English. Caen is a reasonable size, and most folks speak a little. Thionville? Eight hundred year old farming-town surrounded by cornfields. I was wondering if I should learn what “We don’ take KINDLY to strangers in these here parts” sounded like in French.

“Australia?” Hotel reception guy’s eyes went big. He did this double-hand wave-at-the-distance gesture. “So FAR!” Nobody else had batted an eye at my antipodean provenance, so I’m guessing they don’t get too many of us way out in Alsace-Lorraine. Not since the Kaiser came knocking a while back at least. Frankly I didn’t care; I was there to see rusty guns and decaying concrete, and I was willing to charade from one end of the Maginot Line to the other if that’s what it took. Hotel guy was easily amazed but hard to fault; he had me checked in before I had time to mentally rehearse my “Ou est le Ligne Maginot?” spiel. But I knew I had interesting times ahead.

A shop window in Thionville. No, it doesn't fit the narrative, but...look at those donuts. LOOK at them.

And it started early. Bike hire tent down at the river fair was staffed by one comfortable old girl who might have been there to give Rommel a wave as he came through. So I’m thinking “Parlez-non” before I ask the question

Sure enough, a sad smile and a shake of the head. No problem, I’m prepared. Here goes:

“Je voudrais louer un velo pour un jour, s’il vous plaiz.”

Enthusiastic nod. “Ah, oui!”

Whoa. Did that just work?

“D’accord,” <drops paperwork in front of me>, “Allez,” <points at boxes to fill in>, “C’est sa!” <watching me fill them in>. Suddenly she’s unchained a bike, she’s pointing and “Allez”-ing and “D’accord”-ing and nodding and smiling at my encouraging “Ah, oui!” responses. One more challenge: “Uh, anti-vol?” I say, doing a sort-of two-handed putting-a-chain-round-a-thing gesture.

“Oui, voila!” she says, demonstrating the bike’s inbuilt anti-theft dinger. Step back, nod, hold out hand. “Quatre euros s’il vous plaiz.’

I’m a mile down the road when I realise that’s my first no-English exchange. And given there’s a bike underneath me when I click, I’m figuring that it went pretty well. Still, given the only thing she sold was bike hire, I probably could have pointed and said “Ug” and been sufficiently understood.

The best the only bike hire place in Thionville had to offer. Lights, honky horn, mudguards, gross weight around fifty kilos. And yes, that's a basket on the front. I rode forty kilometres on this torture rack, including a brief toodle down what turned out to be a freeway onramp. Followed by a terrified scramble back up said onramp.

On to fortress Hackenberg. The tour itself was no language challenge (the bigger tourism sites know which side their baguette is buttered on, and always have English guides), but before I got there I stopped off in the village of Veckring.

If you're thinking that sounds a bit German, you might be right. I’m in Alsace-Lorraine here, which was ceded to the Prussians (who were sort of Germans, but in the Jurassic) after the disastrous war of 1870 (disastrous for the French that is. And no, there wasn’t much about that one in the museums). It, uh, receded to the French after World War 1, and naturally brought nearly fifty years of German-ness with it. Place names, street signs and a disappointing lack of croissants was just the start of it.

Now, Veckring is literally a village. Houses, fields, other houses. No shops. Like, none. Not even a service station. It was 35 degrees, I’d been riding that basketed battlewagon for two hours and my half-litre water bottle was just about spent, so I was keen to find a waiter to patronise my attempts to order petit dejeuneur. A lap of the place showed nothing, so I resorted to pulling up next to leather-skinned old mate creaking up the road.

“Excuzes moi? Ou est un café, s’il vous plaiz?”

“Eh? Uh?”

Hm. Maybe he’s not from round here. Maybe slower and loude…no, not doing that. Try again.

“Ou est un café, s’il vous plaiz? Café?”

“Ah!” <points> “Tout droit <unintelligible>. Eh la. Eh gauche?”

“Oui, merci! Au revoir!”

<nod, smile> “’Voir!”

I learned ‘gauche’ from Asterix books. ‘Tout droit’ I learned more recently, and from the most charming of teachers. Regardless, I figured out what he meant and went straight on, eyes to the left.

Cafes were not to be seen. But a big gate with ‘PAINTBALL!’ written above it held promise. Paintballing is thirsty work, and I’m thinking someone in there is going to be gouging paint-blasted Alsatians (yes it’s the right term) six euros for fifty centilitres of tepid water. And while I had to tootle my girl-bike through about six glowering packs of compressed-air commandos to find it, I did indeed bumble across the café.

A grill, a fridge, a row of sauce bottles lined up like cannon shells. Two wiry shaved-head  attendants, looking like they either wanted to sell me something or drown me in yellow dye and pain. There were paintball guns lined up near the sauce, so I decided to force the issue.

“Bonjour! Got food? Uh, what’s food…um…”

My external monologue was interrupted by an enthusiastic reply. “Ja! Wurst? Hamburg? Fritten?”

“Ah, sehr gut! Ein wurst bitte, mit…”

Whoa.

German??

I lapsed suddenly and abruptly back to English, trailing off into “…mit, uh, tomato sauce. And a bottle of water, si’l vous…please.”

Blurry off-hand photo of two very quick and extremely friendly fry cooks. Note ducks and numerous trophies for 'fastest delivery of wurst to an Australian..'

I was pretty confused by now, and my suddenly rampant high-school German logjammed with my thoroughly confused two-weeks-earlier French. By the time I’d got round to remembering I was within paintball range of the German border I had a baguette full of wurst in my hand and a bottle of water in my pocket. I spent the time it took to munch through my multicultural hot dog reflecting on the barracks once built to defend France from Germans being used to host paintball contests between them. It was probably ironic or something, but I was so busy drooling over smoky meaty goodness that I didn’t really care.

That brief pause in Veckring was something of a high-water mark. In journeying from Paris to Caen to Thionville to Veckring in pursuit of my pure French language experience, it looked like I’d gone so far I came out the other side. I wasn’t too worried; most of my interactions had been of the form “Bonjour! Deux euros? Merci, au revoir!”, so one less retail conversation was no loss. And my unexpected recourse to a language I ‘learned’ for exactly one year (1980 to be precise) made me realise just how deep such lessons sink their roots. It was enough to persuade me to whip out the iPad that night for a little more “L’homme achetes la repas.”

There was another fusty old fortress tour soon after, and a very entertaining tour led by a French volunteer with a sketchy grasp of English. Our little group of five included me, a local, and three old Italians, none of whom spoke French but one of whom spoke English. So our guide would go once in French for local lad, then again in English for me and Italian English-speaker, who would then translate into Italian for her companions. Their questions came back in Italian, were rendered into her broken English, I would reinterpret some of her trickier words and our guide would do his best to answer. Exactly what blopped out the far end of that particular linguistic sausage machine I’ll never know, but bumbling our way to a trilingually-comprehensible way to say things like “personnel schedule”, “water storage capacity” and “downrange correction of howitzer fire” made for a bloody entertaining day. And with our guide uttering sentences like “The dirty hairs go into filters, clean hairs come out for the mens to breathe”, and “double gun machines reticulating fire on the offensive Germans,” I definitely got my six euros worth.

"...so the Germans are trying to...how is it in English...embrace the fort on all sides. But the neighbouring forts, they are...complimenting them with gunfire..."

My travel rubber band was at full stretch when I peered into the darkness of the lower gallery in Fortress Galgenberg. From there it exerted a steady pull back towards the centre, through parochial Thionville, through urbane Metz and back into barely-accented Paris. There were other occasions when a conversation made me smile; a little girl whose only English was “Hello!” but who made an entire conversation of it, a waitress who mistook my halting utterances for fluency and went full Parisian on me, and a fry cook at a burger stand who corrected my timid pronunciation of a menu item with a bellowed “NOUNOURS!” (Google translate that to see why I was confused). It made me glad I'd learned what I had, that I tried when I did, and that it was as tricky as it occasionally was. Not once did the language barrier keep me from what I wanted, and every time I made myself understood it felt like winning a Scrabble game against an entire country. I’m learning more, I’m practising more and I’m loving the occasions when my not-quite-rights are gently corrected (thanks T!), and my completely-wrongs are roundly mocked (um, thanks T!)

I’ll be back, France. Tell your waiters I’ll be ready this time.

"Okay fellas, here he comes. Remember, like we rehearsed: 'Non! Pas Anglais! Rien!'"

One more.

Some time during the trip I arbitrarily decided that the acid test of my nascent knowledge would be to give someone directions in French. By that time I’d already been asked twice, both times in French, but my translation brain lagged behind my social autopilot, and I told them I only spoke English. Curiously they replied with “Oh sorry, never mind” on both occasions, but the outcome was the same: I didn’t get to do my “Gauche, droite, tout droit.” And by the time I was half a mile from Gare du Nord and that last train to the airport I realised I wasn’t likely to get another chance.

“Excusez moi?”

Turn, look. Backpacker with a map and a quizzical expression. “Ou est la Gare du Nord, s’il vous plais?”

I managed not to laugh disbelievingly. But I may have stared in incredulous delight. Six months of French lessons leaped from long-term storage and crammed themselves simultaneously into RAM.

“Uhhh THAT w…I mean, tout droit, uh, droite, and voila!”

Big eyes. A gradual fade to an expression between incredulity and pity. Then, slowly and loudly, “Do-you-know-where-is-train-station-north? Please?”

Dammit.

“Ah, sure. It’s that way, then right at the end and straight on. It’ll be in front of you.”

Nod, smile. “Thank you! Au rev...goodbye!”

Viola!

Ah well. Maybe next trip. Venir avec?

I own a King Tiger

So there was this guy.

He was running what I can comfortably call the least-developed historical site I’ve visited on this trip: the ‘Batterie de Grandcamp-Maisy’, or ‘Maisy battery’ to us.  Where every other place was tanks on plinths, epic walls or sweeping sculptures, this one was a demountable, a porta-potty and a cyclone wire fence in front of blackberries eight feet high. One of the Trip Adviser reviews says as much, the ‘reviewer’ doing a lap of the car park and leaving. It looked like this…

Blue thing is a Higgins boat, not a swimming pool. White thing is my VW Polo, not a carelessly abandoned roller skate.

Now it smelled pretty rough from the start. But take a look at those two guns. Both are German sFH18s, 15cm artillery pieces used throughout the war. The rusty one looks about right, if a little light-on for working parts. But the better-painted one has a muzzle brake. The Germans didn’t use muzzle brakes on these pieces; best I can make out this was some post-war Czech mod. There’s also a Bofors, a twin 37mm flak and a (I think) rare 7.5cm infantry gun, all in pretty bad shape. None of this suggested a particularly well thought out museum. But it DID have that unique smell of the frighteningly enthusiastic amateur…

So I paid my six euros to the not-even-slightly French chap in the demountable and headed out, laminated map in hand

Hello...

And it’s a pretty good site. It’s not like the other batteries in the area. Longue sur Mer was fully-built, and still looks menacing today with three of the four guns still ensconced in five hundred tons of concrete casemate (for the record, it’s ‘casemate’ A ‘casement’ is a different thing).

On the left is a caseMENT. On the right is a caseMATE. Not the same thing. Needless to say I was disappointed when my interior designer showed me her ideas for my window casemates.

 There’s a great observation and command bunker on the coast and a few defensive positions (based on what little I know, I’d wager there’s much more to be found there; you don’t defend a battery that size with a lone mortar and a single ‘Tobruk’).

One of the four guns at Longue sur Mer. In its casemate. 500 tons of OT concrete, 15cm of German firepower, forty kilos of French kid.

The battery at Pointe du Hoc of course is the big one. There’s been at least one movie made that involves it, starring at least one John Wayne, and about as many Richard Burtons. This thing sits on a spit of land that’s daunting from any angle, let alone from a heaving sea at the bottom of the two hundred foot cliffs. This is the place where two hundred US rangers fired grappling hooks up the cliffs, scaled them in the face of enemy fire and drove out the German defenders, only to discover the guns had been moved. Nonetheless it’s a well-mapped and well developed historical site, and the best-known in the area, largely because it was the site of a colossal American mistake. Of the two hundred-plus rangers who landed, two thirds were dead by nightfall, all to capture seven Germans and one gun. And, much as happened at Gallipoli and in the charge of the light brigade at Sevastopol, the participants were showered with medals and labelled American heroes.

Murderer's-eye view from the bunker covering Pointe du Hoc. Fifty Germans killed two thirds of the Americans who attacked.

To get back on track, Maisy battery is perhaps a little underwhelming by comparison. No huge casemates, the wrong guns, muddy trenches, no ‘interpretive plaques’, no shadowy steles of wistful veterans. Just concrete and steel and notes explaining what I was looking at. Of all the sites, it carried the least gravitas, the least majesty.

But what it DID convey was a sense of a place where a bunch of soldiers spent their days, firing their guns and ducking every time an aircraft flew overhead. It wasn’t hard to imagine a couple of blokes standing around chatting and smoking outside the personnel bunker in a quiet moment, or running hard to the ammo bunkers for more 37mm shells when the Marauders were overhead. It felt real, it felt recent, and it felt authentic in a way the monoliths I’d seen elsewhere didn’t.

"Damn French mud! We didn't have this at Kasserine!"

The site was only found in 2007. The operators were as curious as I’ve occasionally been about the Pointe du Hoc ranger mission, and why it’s so deep in World War 2 culture. They poked about a bit, found some documents, went to a field and stuck a shovel in the ground at a few places. One time they hit concrete, so they bought the field and stuck a lot more shovels in the ground.

To date they’ve uncovered five gun emplacements, three flak positions, a radar bunker, a command bunker, several personnel bunkers and ammunition bunkers aplenty. Two miles or so of trenches have been opened up, and they think they’re only half-done.

So after I finished my tour I thought I’d risk cracking open the anorak vault a bit by asking this guy a question:

“So who’s done the work?”  I said.

“Me and me dad.”

And that question was just about all I was able to get in. Off he went on a clearly oft-trod path, asking what I knew about Pointe du Hoc (a bit), which D-Day books I’d read (a few), and whether I ever wondered why P du H was so well-known despite being a disaster (I had).

And he told a hell of a tale. Searches of National archives, trips to New Orleans museum (apparently curated by the world’s premier authority on D-Day sites), conversations with ranger veterans and German soldiers, endless fact-finding and proselytising for his Pet Project. The conversation (well, the lecture to be honest) drifted and looped and paused for paying customers (“Bonjour! Deux? Oui, deuze euro s’il vous plait. Merci! Now, where was I? Oh, the rangers on June 7^th. Right, they had orders to find Maisy…”). His enthusiasm was infectious, and I happily let him ramble.

Now I’m not even sure how it came up. But at one point he mentioned owning a tank.

“Well, five tanks. Panzer IV, Panther, a couple of Shermans. And, um…”

At this point his expression shifted. It was like seeing a dad talking about his son. I wondered what was coming.

“…I may also have a King Tiger.”

Okay, back the hell up. There’s less than a dozen of these things left, anywhere. And this guy has one in his BACK YARD?

Most folks have a swing set and a rusty barbecue. This guy...?

“Yeah. I found it when I was looking for a Panther.”

Okey dokey then. Easy mistake to make. I’ve stumbled across many a Ferrari when I was drunkenly searching for my car in a pub car park at 3am.

So here’s the story he tells. Apparently the keenest tank collectors go to the lengths of searching World War 2 fighter pilots’ after-action reports, or AARs. These guys would come back from a sweep of Europe, grab a cuppa tea and a bacon and egg sarnie (cuppa joe and hash on a shingle for the Mustang-and Thunderbolt jockeys), then sit down to write about their jaunt. Just an A4 page telling where they went, what they saw, what they did to whom by way of flinging hot metal about. And these things would sometimes record details like “Spotted Panzer IV on Bayeux-Arromanches road near old church. Fired rockets, two hits. Came home for cuppa tea and sarnie.” Cut to 2005, keen tank collector reading this would go to the neighbourhood of Bayeux, find a church on the road in question and start quizzing the locals with the most wrinkles, asking whether they recalled seeing a rusty old tank thereabouts in the years after the yanks came by. This apparently is how old mate came to have a Panther and a Panzer IV in his back yard. And on this occasion, after scanning some FOUR THOUSAND of these AARs, he, found one that mentioned a Panther being knocked out on a road in Normandy.

Quick check with French civil works records from the area. Confirmation a tank was found and reported to the military. Details of the turret being blown off (to render it useless one assumes) after removing several 88mm shells. So old mate knows it ain’t a Panther, whatever it is. Off to this little town with his notebook and ground-penetrating radar kit(?)

Long story short. The village septuagenarians confirm there was a tank there until the ‘50s, after which it vanished. A little more probing, he’s got a location. Quick look with the ground-penetrating radar and viola. Tank! Apparently the next step is telling the German army, BUYING IT OFF THEM, then telling zee local Franch people he will be digging up their road to get HIS tank out thanks very much.

So he tells me he digs up the road. Cranes it out. Sticks it on his army surplus tank transporter and sends it back to England while his civil construction mate rebuilds the road. First thing I’m thinking at this point is exactly how, the HELL, this guy could afford to do all this. Seriously, he’s sitting in a donga, taking six euros off the maybe-four people who wandered in for the two hours I listened. I’m also wondering just how big a back yard he must have to store his five tanks, half-dozen halftracks and collection of WW2 Allied personal equipment so vast there are precisely 121 items he is yet to collect (number 122 was a recent find).

At this point he tells me he makes his money from war memorabilia. Shell case? Hundred bucks. 7.92 casing? Two bucks. Complete Wehrmacht uniform, any condition? Five hundred. Given he’s just dug up a hectare’s worth of battle site, and given I am at this point surrounded by casings, uniforms, helmets, gun parts, artillery pieces and assorted other paraphernalia, I’ll buy it.

So yeah. I just met a guy who tells me he owns a King Tiger, one of only nine (ten counting his) in the world apparently.

Do I believe him?

Well now, isn’t that an interesting question.

There are elements of the story that ring true. AARs were a thing, the locals would have some great leads (and his French sounded convincing enough), he didn’t trip up much on his subject knowledge, and he clearly has a deep involvement in the history of the conflict in the area. He showed me some pictures of what appeared to be a disassembled Panther, a 38(t), a PaK 36 and endless pictures of helmets and uniforms and piles of other paraphernalia. Some of these elements check out (there’s a YouTube video with his name showing some of these things). Others…?

He did show me a couple of black and white pictures of a King Tiger, purportedly after its turret had been blown off prior to burial. I’d never seen the pictures before (and I’ve seen a  LOT of picture of  tanks). There is indeed at least one King Tiger buried under a road in France. It’s been partly unearthed, but traffic disruption would be too severe to permit digging up the hull. He mentioned that one, and said it was his next target, but that he wouldn’t be able to keep it quiet.

On that subject. He claims to have dug up ‘his’ King Tiger and got it back to England. Apparently it cost him a total of five thousand pounds, including ferry fares and paying a local contractor to put the road back. Maybe, I dunno; the French roads I drove on were pretty primitive, but that seems really, REALLY cheap, given he’d have needed a crane capable of lifting sixty tons. Cranes that big don't come cheap. And the fact remains, these things are rare enough that  the nine existing specimens are listed by location and owner on Wikipedia. I guess someone has to be the first to find each one, but to find it, dig it up, get it out and back to England without anyone finding out is quite a feat of subterfuge (we’re talking seventy tons of military hardware here; you can’t tell me that gets you into the ‘nothing to declare’ queue at customs). And then to tell the whole story anyway to a random interested party who wanders in?

Add to this a couple of tall-ish tales he managed to cram in. One about a veteran punching a snooty historian who questioned his authority (okay, I’ll buy it). Another about starting up the only surviving Jagdtiger when he was given access to a Russian military base where it was stored (hm, alright, but…its battery was charged?) And then a tale from an AAR of a Mustang pilot who blew up a Panther so hard its turret flew into the air and knocked out his wingman…

So is it true? Is there a tenth King Tiger sitting in a back yard in northern England somewhere?

The one thing that troubled me most was that this fellow had all these stories to tell. He’d discovered this amazing place, unearthed it, written its story (he’s published a book)  and cast doubt over one of the enduring legends of D-Day. He’d seen the Russians’ secret tank museum, assembled a rare and precious troop of armoured vehicles of his own, collected enough uniforms and equipment to dress a battalion, and had plenty more gear coming (he mentioned a recently unearthed cache of 4,000 German helmets in Israel). Yet I found him sitting in a demountable with his sleepy labrador, collecting six euros apiece from occasional passers-by who squelched up to his propped-open door through the dreary Normandy rain. He’s clearly an eccentric of the first order, moving between the tiny, obsessed circle of global military collectors and the slightly larger but no less, um, focussed circles of D-Day historians. He’s a polemicist, a storyteller, a man with an argument to make and no qualms about the toes he steps on making it. And his desire to see the battery he discovered earn its place in the story of that day is both evident and inspiring. But the site makes a hundred thousand a year (he said), at which rate he could afford to spend the twenty thousand necessary to put a gum-chewing, phone-checking local teen on the counter while he digs up the rest of the 7^th Panzer Division.

Register girl at the Longue sur Mer battery. Yeah, I didn't bother asking about her tank collection.

Maybe he likes being on the site, sharing his tales, hearing what folks think or devising the dig plan for the next phase. It just seemed a strange way to be spending his days. I very much hope it was all true, and I’ll be trying to find out. If you’re into history, or just like tanks (and hey, who doesn’t, amirite!?), check this place out, www.maisybattery.com . He’s opening a museum soon, has plans to display his tanks, and is a long way from done with the story of D-Day. Hopefully he hires that teenager and gets out of that demountable soon. Get over there and catch him before he does.

Because me? You had better BELIEVE I’d be at home, sitting in my King Tiger.

Wanna little towel darl?

I was back in the air. Two years after starting The Late Traveller, I’d finally made it back on board a giant aircraft hurtling through emptiness to a foreign land. I was Dubai-bound of course; seems every plane that leaves Australia is contractually obligated to expose us to the shopping nightmare/dream that is Dubai International. So I had ten hours to prepare myself for one of the bleakest, emptiest, most artificial places I have ever encountered. I hate Dubai so much.

But a journey of a thousand miles starts with a something something. And mine had started months before, when I decided France was next.

So why France? Three reasons. Okay, about a hundred, but ninety seven of them were food. Touching on the non-food ones, the first was the prospect of sampling a little military history first-hand. The country has been the stomping ground for a variety of conquerors, despots, revolutionaries, invaders, counter-invaders, heroic defenders and embarrassing surrenders. I’d read a million of their stories, but never seen the ground they’d stood on when they variously changed the course of human history, vanished into irrelevance, or consigned themselves and their nation to a rep for squibbing the moment shit got real. Second reason was kinda related to the first: I’d been told in no uncertain terms that I was noooot to visit Germany without a select (and very strident) group of friends. There was a hint of menace behind that entreaty, so, yeah, Charles de Gaulle rather than Flughafen Frankfurt on this outing.

And third. Paris. I’ve never thought much about the place, but…yeah. Paris. I’m not really one for ‘collecting’ experiences or hitting the big monuments for the sake of it. But standing at the bottom of the Empire State and putting a hand on the stone I’d seen in endless pictures was like a waking dream. With the Eiffel Tower, Louvre, Notre Dame and the Pompidou within an hour’s walk of each other, there was too much opportunity for stunned gawping to miss.

Time to go. Train tickets, hotel reservations, maps, plans, guides, printed how-tos on getting from terrifyingly huge chrome-and-glass airports to the centre of thousand-year old cities. Also a picture of my very first Airbnb apartment. More on that later. House took a little prepping prior to departure, thanks largely to a pretty amazing weekend with what I may have referred to at least once as ‘my peeps’. With the wine bottles binned, the windows triple-checked and the wifi shut down (hell with you, neighbours; maybe I’d share more if your dogs, alarms, drunk girlfriends and bogan mates would stfu once in a while), it was taxi time.

Tired old Ford station wagon taxi. Driver from somewhere in the middle east? Epic beard, a smile that was visible through it and a gentle opinion on Perth traffic and Uber drivers. Terminal One, here I come.

Airports. In a kind moment I’d call them a necessary evil, but at other hours I’d call them well-catered hell-pits. Cranky kids, nervous adults, plodding seniors and queues queues queues. I made the intuitive leap that my ‘Qantas’ flight meant an Emirates check-in, and dropped into the seatbelt-bordered maze behind chatty Jewish family. They were fine, but behind me was an increasingly frazzled mother whose one child insisted on sitting on her trolleyed suitcases and wriggling until they fell off. Her threats to control little Dan started at ‘no food on the plane’, progressed through ‘a thump’, detoured briefly past ‘I’ll delete ‘Home Alone’’ (more of a kindness really) and eventually settled at ‘Right, that’s it. No more wifi.’ Respect to her; I would have toe-tagged that odious little goblin and checked him on as baggage. It was a relief to reach the counter. And to have no children.

“Dubai? Sweet. Got your passport there mister Dunn? Sweet. Okay, I’ve checked you right through. Here’s your boarding passes and a customs form. Super sweet!”

He sure liked that word. I don’t know if there was some misguided cultural familiarisation class behind it, but young Chester was misinformed of the right number of enthusiastic affirmations to use in a conversation. Frankly I couldn’t disagree; he had me out of there faster than the checker-inners at the minesite airstrips I frequent.

Customs. Green form. Having learned from my New York experience, I had three pens secreted about my person and luggage. Boxes ticked, name scribbled illegibly (and my occupation; the heck? Are they hoping someone will accidentally divulge they’re an international terrorist?), signature on back and past the fixed smile on the woman telling people no, she didn’t have a pen every six minutes

Queue for the passport guys was nice and short, and it was minutes before I got a gruff “Next ploise” calling me to the counter.

“Passport ploise.” Look, squint, scribble. “Thank yoi. Go through ploise.”

I always thought that was a joke accent, sort of a satire on squinting, suspicious old cops in Kings Cross. Kevin the Customs Guy showed me otherwoise. I went through as instructed and joined the throng in the weirdly small departure space.

The other humans there were tired and nervous, and balanced on that weird edge you see people on when their destiny isn’t entirely in their own hands. Not everyone; some folks were dozing full-stretch across three seats, oblivious to the glares of the stander-uppers with overworked plastic bags full of vodka and perfume. But others were three feet from the gate, checking their boarding passes and the time every six minutes. I was somewhere in between, and spent the half-hour or so pacing the gaps between sprawled bodies, uncomfortable seats, celebrity perfumes and mounded alcohol. With ten hours in an aluminium chair coming my way I wanted to keep moving as long as I could.

Final texts were sent by about halfway through the boarding march. Hosties with little signs saying which zone was boarding, a leisurely trickle from the Emirates lounge, all swirling around the tight-packed fear of the econoclass. I was heading into a space where a glass of water was a tricky request, while twelve feet above me a hostie was leading a chorus of apologies for not having a guest’s exact pyjama size. Which is fine; if I coughed up for first class I’d want the pilot’s home phone and my name on a plane somewhere.

Managed to miss my seat of course. Years of boarding teeny planes with a catflap hatch at the front trained me to think the first row I passed was number one. Turns out Airbuses stick a funnel in around row forty for the peasants, so I was way down around row seventy before I realised I’d overshot. A good thirty seconds of “Sorry, ‘scuse me, sorry, whoops, hey nice shoes, oh dear was that coffee hot?” and I made it back to 45A.

I was actually dozing when 45B gave me an elbow and uttered the words that named this entry. There was the usual moment of confusion while mister brain caught up on current events, recognised the interior of an aircraft and reconciled the stern sixty-something surgical nurse beside me pointing to a pretty Belgian-by-way-of-Tunisia hostie, smiling and dangling a steamy rag in tweezers before me. We hadn’t taken off yet (I sleep fast on planes) and I didn’t know who was whom yet (I learn fast, but I ain’t that good), but I knew I didn’t wanna little towel darl. Belgian-by-way-of-Tunisia handed ‘my’ towel to the next guy, and sixty-something surgical nurse got busy swiping at every inch of exposed skin with her little towel. Her skin, not mine.

I was awake through the takeoff, but managed to nod off again right around when we flew over where that Malaysia Airlines plane went down. The ‘too soon’ rule precludes elaboration here, so my apologies if you were expecting a gag. Suffice to say I can offer little to prove or disprove the theories regarding unsuccessful searches other than to say the ocean is big. And planes are probably quite sinky.

Okay, that was a good nap. I seem to be over France. Landing. More once I know whether they’ll deport me for mispronouncing ‘Bonjour’...

A journey of ten thousand miles begins with an expired passport

So I'm sitting in my recently redecorated study. There's a pile of gear behind me and a backpack ready to receive it all. Travel docs printed, destination-appropriate cash on hand, even a little pile of change for sampling random mysteries from vending machines. I know where and when I need to be, and all that remains is going there, then.

Planning a holiday is as big a journey as the one that involves planes and x-rays and snoring fellow passengers with personal hygiene shortcomings. At some point you think "It'd be noice to go see <wherever>." Fast forward a month, it occurs to you that your dream of treading the jewelled shores and/or shaded avenues of <wherever> is no closer to realisation. So that day you take a look at your work calendar, and you notice a neat gap between everyone else's leave, the big round of meetings for the Thing, you know, the One the CIO is keen on, and the start of the next season of <some TV show you like>. And you think "Yeah. I might go <wherever> then."
Another month. You've just been hit with council rates, school fees and the quarterly power bill, still suspiciously high despite the abolition of whatever that tax was that should have saved us five hundred bucks. You've got some work social thing planned for that nice gap in the work schedule, and you're thinking you don't reeeally want to miss the end of the current season of <some other TV show you like>. Maybe the trip to <wherever> can wait another year. Things'll be easier once you've sorted the last payment on the new kitchen anyway.

But then the Moment. You know the one. Someone at work says "Hey, when's your big trip to <wherever>? It's just after the end of that TV show you like isn't it? Are you ready to go?"

You're not. You'd forgotten about it. You'd slipped back into the easy comfort of routine, with no big expenses, no worries about getting someone to cover you at work, water your fruit trees or mind your pet axolotl. After all, it's not like <wherever> was going anywhere, right?

Wrong. And the Moment is when you realise it's getting further away every year (continental drift aside, I'm talking metaphorically here. Stay with me).

The Moment caught me one Thursday afternoon in August 2013. I'd talked about The Trip, savoured my friends' enthusiasm for the plan, even started thinking about the things I'd like to do there. But actually planning and doing? Nup. Nothing.
Fast forward to The Moment. For me it was when I looked at my appointments and realised the date was a week later than I originally said I planned to go. Four hours later I walked out of a travel agent with a ticket to New York and a booking in an overpriced hotel. And a promise to myself that I wouldn't wait for The Moment next time.

Yeah, this hotel. Million dollar lobby, hundred dollar rooms.

I'm a little more organised on this trip. There's a chronologically-arranged, highlighted-and-underlined wad of hotel confirmations, train tickets and tour maps to prove it. Attention to detail ain't my thing, but sometimes something just clicks and suddenly I'm printing annotated route maps from train stations to ferry terminals via notable landmarks. Having said that, there was one, ah, minor oversight: my passport expired mid-holiday. Frankly though, that was less of an issue than the (perhaps thoroughly deserved) ribbing I got from those in the know. Seriously, there was a phone call in which a travel agent was laughing at me in the background.

Anyway, passport was sorted in plenty of time, although an email address typo by the register biscuit at the post office meant I didn't actually get notified. Yeah, that was a fun wait. Never mind; it's good to go, along with all the other travel essentials:

No, the iPad doesn't have a cover. Yes, the bear flies with me. No, I won't describe the contents of the attractive leatherette zip pouch (it's not drugs. Well, it's not JUST drugs.)

There's a knot of clothes to go in with this lot, plus those docs I've wittered on about and a couple of other books. But that's pretty much it. I'm thinking seven kilos, tops. And before you ask how I can manage it, remember: no kids. Luggage required is inversely proportional to the size of the human, and with nobody to entertain but myself (and I can get by on a pen, a notepad and a clear recollection of the funnier moments of every episode of Hogan's Heroes), I'm travelling extra-light.

As to what this trip is all about? It's more than just fulfilling a 'promise' I made to myself to travel more, to see the world, to do something to my horizons or whatever. Life took a pretty amazing turn for me a few months back, and it's put much of what I do into a different perspective. I have a variety of instructions on what I should do, where I should go, and how I should act on this journey. There is however one thing (okay it's technically three) that's at the heart of this new adventure:

So far so good :-)

Oh yeah. I didn't say where I was going. Getting ahead of the narrative a bit here, but perhaps a clue:

See it?

All the way from JFK

It took three trains to get me to the airport. Not all at once; I bought a few things, but not that much. I started from my old friend, the station at 34th and Herald Square. Never done the F line from there, so I followed the signs directing me to take the lif…sorry, elevator down to the uptown platform.

Naturally I’m standing in this tiny rattling old thing, staring at a security camera with a zoom lens strong enough to scan the DNA of the bodily fluids staining the walls while my brain cranks through some nightmare scenarios (elevator stuck, phone dead, no mobi…sorry, cell reception, missed flight, arrested and sent to Guantanamo for overstaying my visa, waterboarded for writing Facebook posts critical of Australia’s conservative gov…aaand there’s the door. Thank you brain, please go back to flashing up reminders of my ex in sequined hot pants for no good reason). Found the platform, watched the wrong train roll past, waited ten minutes, then noticed the sign telling me on weekends I had to catch a D train to 7^th Avenue to get the E. Something like that; I dunno, it was still pretty damn early, and breakfast was a midnight hot dog. It seemed a better plan than staring at dirty train tracks until my flight left, so I went with it. Sure enough, platform opposite, big sign with a little airplane. Those subway sign guys are good (seriously, there’s probably a sign down here telling where my keys are).

I can almost hear the sign guys appending "OBviously" to the end of this

New Yorkers paid little heed as I began the second longest journey of my life. The old homeless guy keeping warm (it’s toasty down there) scrunched a bit deeper into his garbage bag luggage, the schoolkid sports team variously challenged, confirmed or sullenly accepted their teenage pecking order, a marshmallowy young couple wearing Fun Run numbers did a few warm-up stretches. Maybe they though it would be a tiring subway trip, dunno. I saw a rat darting around the 625 Volt third rail, so I spent the last few minutes before my train arrived taking photos of subway garbage with a rat behind it.

"Now where did that rat THERE IT GOES oh wait that's another chihuahua."

Hello Seventh Avenue station. Up top it’s Times Square, great little supermarkets, Carnegie’s deli (annoyed I missed that one) and the usual jousting taxis; down here it’s tiles and dust and these great old wooden benches stained near-black by decades of butt sweat. But for the clientele, this station looks just like the Fifth Avenue station at Bloomingdales and Tiffany’s, which looks just like the Chinatown train station near the stinky fish place with the guy selling styrofoam mugs of something wriggly that could be food, could be bait, could be house pets for all I knew. Sorry, no trite ‘the subway is a great equaliser’ metaphor here. Just saying you need to be on your toes ‘cos it’s easy to end up in Harlem when you were shooting for Queens.

E train to the airport. Luggage and check-in anxiety marks the folks in for the JFK long haul. The off-to-work commuters don’t smirk and stretch their legs at us as we struggle with our luggage (weird; I totally would), but then they don’t get to eat Emirates pizza over Marseilles and St Tropez. Winning.

Just like that, Jamaica station. Another elevator ride (hatch, phillips head screws, could probably jimmy that with a pen, got water, might have to eat the other passengers if it takes too…theeere’s the door) and out to the Skytrain. Catching that thing’s so much easier second time round. I blow through the Metrocard turnstiles while the noobs are still trying to stuff their British pounds or Canadian maples or whatever into the ticket machines and jump on board.

Hm, this train doesn’t seem to have a driver. Nor are there the usual uniformed people standing and looking. Seems like a missed opportunity to get someone into work (THANKS Obama).

Terminal 4 I have not missed you.

Dubai is consumer indulgence taken to a crass extreme. I can’t help thinking they've slipped JFK (the airport, not the guy. He’s…okay, no. Probably still too soon) a few maples to provide the opposite experience. It’s well-signposted; I know exactly which bleak and featureless concourse to head down to reach the soulless echoing barn of the check-in hall. There are boards directing me to exactly the right uncertain clump of directionless passengers waiting for guidance; I head there to wait and watch as the wiser heads of the online check-in set breeze through.

JFK terminal 4. A monument to the joy of life, pulsing with barely-restrained excitement. Ecstasy rendered in steel and concrete.

Things picked up once the queue got moving. The staff were pretty cool and got us shaken out into ragged uncomplaining lines, with only the odd crazy old Jewish guy who wants to know why the Emirates signs aren’t in Hebrew like in the El Al signs (this happened). I was stuck behind a Vietnamese woman with four duct-taped ‘Contents: 30 dozen eggs’ boxes, a trolley case and a Hello Kitty backpack (I was tempted to exchange it for something; I missed a gift purchase yesterday when I discovered the ‘Three floors of candy!’ place on Madison). Miss Saigon was behind a Tanzanian chap (he announced it to anyone who spoke to him, made eye contact or passed within twelve feet), whose trolley had four suitcases, a baby shower (like, a pink shower rose and a little pink bathtub in a box, not six women with tepid glasses of chardonnay and gift-wrapped safety pins) and…I dunno, some other baby-washing device. Man clearly had a dirty baby in his future. I’m there with a duffel and a backpack, wondering how the hell the plane is going to take off with all that pink plumbing and one thousand four hundred and forty potential chickens in the hold. Yeah, took me a second to calculate it too.

"Passengers from New York, please collect your baggage from carousel 2."

I confess I twitched slightly when a beige suit elbow-clutched me and asked “Are you travelling alone sir?” I’m wondering which queue is check-in for Gitmo when he ushers me to a free attendant, inaccessible to the trolley-burdened. Sometimes it pays to leave the eggs behind.

A quick plug. Whatever you say of Emirates, they've nailed the check-in and transfer process. I gave her my passport, threw the duffel on the scale and readied for the typing and the questions and the one day I’m going to leap the counter and see what you do back there. But she swipes the passport (I got mine exactly a week after the swipeable ones came out), says “Final destination Perth? One bag?”, then hands me two boarding passes. I watch my bag leave me for the next 20,000 kilometres, unshoulder my backpack and say, “You need to weigh my…”

She does the wrinkled-nose headshake univerally understood to mean ‘No such nonsense!’, writes out a luggage tag and says, “Put this on your carry-on.” I ask if I need to recover my duffel at Dubai and check it onto the next flight, and am immediately rewarded with another wrinkle-shake. I do the slow head bob that means ‘I am both surprised and impressed,’ and follow through with, “Damn, you guys are good.”

“I know, right?”

Mmm, I’ve been itching to hear a New York chick say that (thanks Leisha). I give her a jaunty salute with my boarding passes, manage to not say ‘keep up the good work’ and flee while I’m ahead.

Bored guards at the entry to security. Both have Glock 20s and M4 carbines. Both have index fingers in the approved near-but-not-on the trigger that would give a miscreant an extra .014 seconds to react before they interrupted his plans. I hustle past, annoyed that I will never, ever be able to calculate whether I am more or less safe for their presence and armament.

TSA time. Awesome, x-ray porn and creepy pat-downs! I begin the strip, hoping there isn't an idiot in line with a suspiciously handle-shaped blender blade in his luggage that his mum gave him on a trip to Adelaide that he reeeally should have thought about before holding up all the nice people.

Belt, shoes, jacket. My socks match, but I have a brief moment of subconscious panic over whether I’m wearing undies (seriously brain, why? Get back to elevator scenarios, I’m busy here). There’s shrieking ahead when a TSA guy points to a Moldovan woman’s pocket (I’m guessing her nationality here; you can be similarly speculative if you write a blog. Send me a link) and tells her she has to empty it. “Pessport!” she wails in the key of the song of her people.  “Pessport!” TSA shakes his head, points to the x-ray thingy, assumes the pose and holds up his clipboard one-handed. Clearly Moldovans are good at charades as she gets it straight away.

I’m ready for my carcinogenic close-up when there’s a brief sputter of red light from a monitor. TSA shakes his head, mutters something and opens a little gate on a boring old magnetic step-through. We’re ushered through, grab our kit and…

…wait, where’s my patdown? Where’s my x-ray porn? Come on, I've been working out! What, don’t you love me? Tell me what it is TSA, I can change!

Dammit, what's HE got that I haven't got?

Departure gate. Here’s where Dubai is right to not let JFK join in any reindeer games. In Dubai I’m pretty sure I could buy absinthe, Cubans (cigars I mean, not people from Cuba. Although I didn’t look at every shop) and probably that Mercedes if I had the extra luggage allowance. At JFK it took me a lap to find a place that did fruit and yoghurt. McDonald’s, Dunkin’ donuts (fricken Americans and their apostrophed f’ranchise names), two identical limited-option cafes, a duty free that looked like a Joe’s liquor with slightly cleaner carpet and that’s your lot. Hardly mattered; I ate my hippie breakfast, bought a cup of ‘coffee’ (there’s a whole ‘nother blog on what these guys do to that beverage) and ended up dumping half of it by the time we were called.

On board. Back right window. Awesome, little TVs; I get to find out whether Sheldon and Amy finally kiss! It's a full plane. Demanding Chinese guy in front, asking for red wine every half an hour. Smiling African guy watching…okay, he’s watching Die Hard The Latest over and over again. Next door is a young mid-east guy; he likes action flicks and chewing pizza with his mouth open. Meh, he’s small and quiet and doesn’t hog the armrest, and I can always turn up the volume on Penny’s cleavage.

<sigh> "Alright. ONE more episode."

Had a great bathroom routine on the last flight: whenever the couple next to me bolted for the toilets (which was often; they were old and thirsty), I’d slip out at the same time. They’d await my return and everyone would be happy. I was hoping to do the same thing here, but Africa and Arabia are disporting some serious bladder capacity. I've been sipping steadily to avoid the headache and I could hold out longer, but we’re eight hours down, four to go and if I’m not careful I’ll run into the post-breakfast pre-landing toilet crunch. It’s time. Cover me, I’m going in…

Hooboy. Pro tip: don’t use airplane toilets barefoot. I mean, it’s just my feet, and it was probably just water (probably), but deprived of elevators to panic about, brain got busy ascribing all sorts of unpleasant properties to whatever my feet were telling it about. Stand still and you don’t get the clammy feeling so much, that’s all I can offer. Or, yeah, maybe keep your shoes on.

Back, safe. I feel for airplane carpet. Ooh, Marx Brothers fillum on the menu! I've always wanted to see one of those. ‘Day at the Races’ apparently. Here we go…

Well, that was implicitly racist. Yeah, those guys are funny, but that whole song and dance thing with the upturned jazz hands and the panicked ‘de sheaiff!’ bit at the end…I can see why they don’t get so many reruns on TCM. And the tacked-on musical number was just painful. Having said that, check out the ballet dancer. It was out of place in a lighthearted comic flick, but WOW, Vivien Fay could spin (3:42 for the how-does-she-do-that bit).

Landed. Hello Dubai my recent acquaintance. My, aren’t we popular in daylight hours? Last time was…2230 to 0430, and I had a screeching headache. This time I can see straight. And…yup, big ugly mall desert. I know, I know, some folks like it, and more power to you; you’ll get more out of these stopovers than I ever will. But I just can’t get into a ‘shop for 22 karat bracelets’ mood when I've been on the go in the same clothes for fourteen hours with the same yet to come. Yet there are people getting around here with trolleys. TROLLEYS. What are they buying? Who comes to an airport to shop? Are these people at home and suddenly declare, “Honey, we’re out of jewelry, perfume and iPhones. I’m just going to fly to Frankfurt and pick some up on the stopover.” Meh, I’m sure their partners love the bling. Maybe that’s it; maybe I need to tell women I’m <a bunch of awesome stuff> and I regularly spend three bored hours in Dubai International.

I’d like to get back on a plane now please.

Thank you that’s better. First time this trip I've had an aisle seat. Middle-aged couple toilet-trapped between me and the window. He has tattoos, long blonde hair surrounding a bald patch and…ah. A taste for Heinekens. Here’s hoping his prostate’s in good shape or I’m not going to get through much Big Bang this trip.

I withdraw that. The boy can hold his German beer. His wife however has a bladder the size of a thimble, and likes the idea of pressing a button to make uniformed women bring her vodka and orange. She’s up and down more than…(keep it topical Mick, keep it relevant…), an Empire State building elevator at sunset (Yes! Nailed it!)

Hm. No closure on the Sheldon-kissing-Amy thing (Amy? I dunno, the archetypal nerd girl character.) The series ended on some lame note about the kid from Roseanne leaving his archetypal waitress-blonde girlfriend character behind for some science thing. Ah well; the nerd-guy-hooks-hot-girl schtick is starting to grate anyway.

Reality according to Big Bang.

Reality according to reality. Sorry fellas.

Wow, where has this flight gone? I thought ten hours of Indian Ocean darkness would drag, but I haven’t even resorted to reading the graphic novel I stuffed in my bag. Partly because I was smart enough to board early and get locker space for my bag, without realising it would be buried beneath three layers of what the HELL do these people PUT in those trolley-cases??

There’s something akin to anticipation as we near Australia. I've flown into Perth more times than I care to guess (bugger it, I’m guessing 300), but seeing the nose of the comically oversized jet icon touch the coast on the little display offers a mild thrill. Maybe like unwrapping your favourite Chuppa chup (coffee here; remember those? Mmm). The buzz of activity lifts as we approach, the hosties stowing their carts, doing the little hot towels (a lovely touch, especially when you sit next to someone who isn’t sure what they’re for NO THEY’RE NOT FOR THAT STOP oh dear here let me get you something cold), gathering tra…sorry, rubbish, handing out customs cards and telling that little Pakistani guy for the nth time to get the hell out of the crew seats in the back row NOW please sir.

The lights of Perth. We’ve had the ‘electronic devices and anything else that might distract you from the terror of descent’ speech, so I’m writing in the notepad now. There are a lot of folks I care about down there amongst those lights (I hope we don’t crash into any of them GODDAMMIT SHUT UP SUBCONSCIOUS BRAIN!), a lot of tales I want to tell, and even more I want to hear.

Paperwork and passport on hand, just got to fight through the irrational fear that someone’s slipped a pound of evil into my luggage somewhere between “I know, right?” girl at JFK and “Step into this small windowless room please sir” guy at Perth International.

Wheels down. My pen has done three laps of the cabin, filled out a platoon’s worth of customs decs and come back to me. Couple across the aisle have their iPhones out and their fingers poised ready for the instant they get permission (Emirates announce it in Arabic first; these kids would probably learn the phrase ‘switch on your phones if they’re within reach’ to gain the extra minute). I've got my bag packed; gunna try the up’n’dash to gain a few rows the moment the seatbelt sign goes out. No hurry; just always wanted to try it.

Runway on the forward camera view. I reckon I could land the plane from here. That’d show everyone who said I ‘wasted my life’ playing ‘X-Wing combat flight sim’. Almost there...

"Ten degrees of flaps...landing gear down...lock S-foils in attack position..."

Touchdown. It’s an exhaled breath, a release. Buggered if I know why; I’ve got a cold house and stale apples waiting for me, but that’s probably one for the other blog some time. There’s the mobile phone announcement; it actually plays to a chorus of bleeps and bloops from the folks who know the routine better than their national anthem. I don’t bother; my data service has been turned off for the last week since I got a Telstra text saying “Haha, you thought you were using hotel wireless, when you were using cellular data the whole time! Here’s your bill, sucker!” I may be paraphrasing.

Yeah, the "up 'n' dash" totally worked. Gained exactly ten rows before I hit a pudding in a red blouse wrestling her rococo trolley case onto the head of the passenger beneath. I smiled politely and helped her get the thing off him before his spine collapsed.

Customs. See, America!? A desk with pens on little chains! How hard would that be? Might have saved me chasing some German girl across a heavily-armed picket line while brandishing a pen.

The nice lady smiles as she calls me up. She also says hi when I do, doesn't fingerprint me and says ‘seeya!’ when she sends me on my way to baggage pickup. Bag is already on the carousel when I get there; only have to fight my way through the usual closer-is-better crush to grab it and head for the next threshold guardian. This one’s a largish lass with a frustrated expression and very little semi-automatic firepower. She takes my customs card and waves me towards a door, where…

…I’m out? That’s it? No bag check, no suspicious questions, no ‘anything to declare’? Seriously, what’s a bloke got to do to get some love from customs? I’m sure it had nothing to do with a flight arriving simultaneously from Bali, bringing with it the Hawk’s (no really, the apostrophe was on their shirts) football team’s end of season trip. Maybe I’m being harsh, but…yeah, a footy team going to Bali post-season. I guess customs were busy frisking them for any trace of imagination or creativity.

Familiar streets, familiar sights. Including the taxi driver; I’m sure the same guy nearly ran me down on Broadway last Tuesday. Unfamiliar weather though; what the hell, Perth? I left sunshine and 78 deg…sorry, 25 degrees to come back to this? You’re going to have to work on that if you want my business.

Home.

I’m not going to close on a reflective note. There’s another entry to come, and I’ll probably get all ‘I saw New York, but I learned about myself’ in that one. Instead I’d like to close by saying that, having been through twelve or more hours of it, having had the time to quietly experience, absorb and reflect on its nuances at length, I can confirm that Big Bang Theory is awful. Blonde chicks in LBDs and occasional clever dialogue are nice, but they just aren't enough to make up for plot lines that were on the nose when Fred Flintstone was yabba dabba dooing about the hot blonde chick across the hall at the quarry.

"<taptaptap> Penny <taptaptap> Penny <taptaptap> Penny."

But yes. It’s still a better love story than Twilight.