I have just negotiated the Exit Police, Customs and Security and it was not pleasant. I am now relaxing, if you could say that, with a six dollar small cup of coffee and discovering that my flight is not being mentioned on the screen by the number on my ticket! What to do? There are two options and I'll do both. Get my backpack (I have checked my trolley bag, 10.3 Kilograms, too heavy) and go to the first boarding gate and see what's going on there, hopefully they will enlighten me. The other one is to find the right gate.
Earlier my departure from Matraville was not without incident either. My always generous bro. who absolutely insists on driving people to the airport, (at a time of his convenience), turned out to be less than accommodating when I suggested we leave a little earlier, as I was up and ready, and in the case of Sydney Airport, early is essential. He gruffly responded on pouring out his second cup of tea, 'I gotta drink my tea and move my bowels (not in those words!) before I go.' So I sit down to read the paper whIch he throws to me, breathing softly and saying nothing, with memories surfacing of many years of dogfights we used to have growing up, and later also some in adult life? However I valiantly ignore them. I just want to be outta here. A few minutes later he finishes his tea and we board his car, he humming inane tunes the total time while also attempting to make polite small talk, possibly feeling he had acted a bit curmudgeonly. I want to listen to neither, but just wish to be through Customs. Also my plastic bag full of purchases has broken its handle on my arrival at the airport which is not a good omen.
I look for the Check-in Gate for my flight and see it is at number H. After an essential toilet visit I make my long way there and am told eventually that it's not at H but at D and G, way back where I had come from. Back to Qantas at Desk D and the electronic machine refuses to recognise my passport so I line up for the help desk. Everything these days is computer driven and electronic, but the attendant is nice, and I check my one bag electronically, and finally start the tedious walk though Customs and Security. It is not a mile-long but feels like it. Customs form filled out OK but I feel like writing 'leaving Australia permanently' on it, however I manage to refrain from that. Security is another thing but not as bad for me as for the poor Frenchman ahead of me whose bags are totally emptied and searched. I just have my near-empty toothpaste tube measured and tested for illicit drugs, ho- hum.
Then begins the labyrinthine and badly signposted trail to the departure gates, weaving my way through the kilometres of 'Duty Free' temptations to get to the gates' lounges. It is a nightmare and that is the only word for it. I spray on some free Armani tester to raise my spirits, and escape, for the moment, the duty-free hell that is Sydney airport.
Never in all my travels have I seen so much bald commercialisation and blatant seduction of greedy clients at a duty-free outlet in the world. Sydney wins the prize for consumer greed, and also for outright ugliness. Now I'd better start looking for the boarding gate or I might miss my plane. Then I discover I have made another mis-reading - it is at the opposite end of this very large terminal so I have to start my trek again through the Duty Free - ugh - all the way up to Gate 55 and I am now finally boarding. One good piece of news is that I have been given a seat with leg-room on the exit row.
Now on to civilised Wellington.
But still trying to smile in spite of it all
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