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.