Throttlebear

Throttlebear,
originally uploaded by skyring.

Canberra to Sydney
737-800 VH-VXE “Coffs Harbour”
QF560
0650 - 0829

This is it. The start of a world tour of Charleston. I've taken the Friday night off, preferring to put some solid effort into tidying the office instead of driving a cab for twelve hours. My wife wants to turn my office into a family room, saying (with some justification) that as I'm no longer a bookseller, I don't need a room with floor to ceiling books. Fair enough. I'm not the tidiest person in the world, and her threat to hire a rubbish skip while I'm away and tip into it anything she deems to be junk has had an effect.

I've cleared away half my stuff and secured a promise that she'll hold fire on the skip until I return and I'll tidy away the rest of it then. She's talking about new curtains and carpets. Women.

Not a lot of sleep, one way or another, and I'm up early for an 0730 departure. For a wonder, I've packed the night before. Instead of dashing around wondering what I've forgotten, this morning I'm calm and controlled. I don’t bother with my usual caffeine slug. I’ve got an hour in the lounge before my flight, and even if the machine espresso is insipid, it’s still better than what I can fix for myself.

There's only one quick return to the house to collect the laptop power supply, eliminating the chance that I might experience the trip instead of writing about it. Hmmm.

Canberra is a grey and drizzly day, in contrast to my bright spirits as we park the car and then stand in the checkin line for twenty minutes. I've got a window seat towards the front of the plane and there will be at least half an hour chatting in the lounge with the wife and daughter, coffee and muffins.

But as soon as we're in the lounge, in between dropping my carryon at a convenient window seat, and getting a cuppa from the self-serve espresso machine, there's an announcement. All passengers holding boarding passes for QF872 report to front desk. The plane is unserviceable, and we're to be squeezed aboard the earlier flight. Leaving now. Or wait several hours.

Stampede for front desk, abandoned coffee left dripping into cup, and we gods of the Qantas Club are allocated seats at the back of QF560, awaiting our immediate grace.

Back to the waiting women sipping their coffee. Wife gets up, and I brush past her to take a photo of the plane. She was expecting a fond farewell embrace, and becomes distinctly cold when I turn, holding out my arms for a hug. Not quite a peck on the cheek, but I'm hearing that rubbish skip being rumbled into position. This could prove to be an expensive photograph.

(Pause for real-time check - I'm in the Sydney Qantas Flounge, and they are running the A380 around just outside the windows. Talk about a distraction!)

My assigned seat of 26A is on the far side of a seated couple: middle and aisle. The plane is almost empty, so I grab 27A in an empty row. After about five minutes passengers 27A and 27C arrive, but they take the middle and aisle seats with barely a murmur.

It's drizzle outside, overcast above, and we're delayed while the passengers and crew of my cancelled flight scramble aboard. Even with two planeloads, our bird is only two thirds full.

We take off and spend about an hour stooging around, taking the taxidriver way to Sydney. Captain apologises every now and then, blaming air traffic control. No matter. I have a true chance to savour the muesli biscuit and mango juice served as breakfast.

Mild turbulence (outside) keeps the crew in their seats and with the unbroken cloud it's a reasonably tedious flight. I pull out cotourist Ringbear, sitting him on the seat top to take a few photographs, and I can feel the smiles from the two rows behind, full of displaced cabin crew.

I catch a glimpse of the harbour beneath after we turn and join the landing pattern, but the cloud is high enough to hide the towers of Sydney. The top of the bridge arch breaking the cloud top like a surfacing whale would be a sight worth seeing, but no, it’s cotton wool all the way in.

I haven’t had a chance to get a good bear photograph. Usually I try to get a photograph of the cabin crew holding Ringbear. Seatbelt sign on most of the way, and these short flights it’s hard to find a moment when the cabin crew aren’t busy. We land, hit the gate, and I linger. Being near the back of the bus, this is sort of what happens anyway. I’m the last passenger out and I accost the young lady at the door, offering her my bear and my camera.

Bless her heart, she understands the deepest desires of middle-aged men, and ushers me into the cockpit, where the copilot is tidying away the paperwork. Just a few seconds of dials and smiles, but it absolutely makes my day, and all the way through the terminal, onto the transfer bus,

Heaven with a superjumbo

Departures,
originally uploaded by skyring.

Saturday, 4 October 2008

4 October 2008
First Lounge, Sydney

A quick walk through Terminal 3 to the transfer point. I love that Metropolitan Museum of Art shop full of fascinating stuff, but I'll likely see the real deal next week and can get it cheaper there and not have to lug it around. Must bring something good back for the wife, and the usual block of exotic chocolate may not do it this time.



I usually contrive to arrive for the inter terminal transfer bus just after the previous one has left, windows full of happy faces smiling back at an anxious one pressed against the glass. This is important, because every moment spent here is one less moment not spent in the FLounge, and there is simply no comparison between the two places.



But I'm in luck this time around, and there's only a few minutes in those padbare seats before we're loaded into the bus, smiling at the cranky person waving his fist and left behind. I always like this journey, through the back areas of Qantas. What delights are hidden away in hangars, teams of sweating engineers tinkering with mighty jet engines, belting furiously with hammers and wrenches at balky video systems, or just having a quick fag at the back.

Quick flick through immigration (I've got a priority card for this, but traffic density is low and it confers no benefit) and then there's miles of duty free shops, none of them selling what I really want, which is a set of MacAir international adaptors. In addition, my camera has been sending me low battery signals since Canberra, and I buy some rechargeable batteries. And a charger. Sealed in hard plastic.

Isn’t airport security wonderful? They take away your knives and scissors and nail clippers and toothpicks. I’ve got no chance of ripping through the packaging with my freshly clipped nails.

Oh well, I'll deal with this later. I think I have a USB key that will take an edge if I can grind it against something hard for a bit.

Here's the sign for the Qantas lounges. And a discreet door with "First" on it.

My third time in this lounge, and I’m well over my initial sense of wonder. Time to savour the details. That incredible living wall as you walk in – greenery climbing and curving around to the escalators taking you up in the world. The doorman smiles as I pull out my camera, suggests the best place to stand, and moves a floor sign out of the way. Maybe others have been here before, and maybe they have paused for a picture.



It’s the details that make this lounge. The sense of clever design is everywhere. I never thought I’d find an airline lounge to rival Cathay Pacific’s exquisite Wing in Hong Kong, but it is here, now, setting a new standard.

There’s a departure board at the entrance. Not a video screen, but a retro clacking board straight out of the Sixties. My flight isn’t even listed – I’ve got a good two, nearly three hours here.

First things first. I have a private request for the lady on the desk.

“You’re not the first person to ask me that, sir. Let me look after it.”

Breakfast. Or second breakfast, if I count that muesli biscuit and plastic mango juice in seat 27A. First coffee anyway – I didn’t even get to taste the cup I poured in Canberra when they switched my flight, and the turbulence ruled out hot drinks in flight

Here it’s the coffee they drink in Heaven, not something out of an autoespresso. This is the cup of delight, made by a barista smiling out behind a bunch of exotic flowers.



And breakfast to match. I don’t often get perfect eggs and smoked salmon for breakfast. Mushrooms and the ultimate grilled tomato. It’s tender and juicy when I get it in my mouth, but cutting it into bites with my plastic knife is a sweet struggle. I’ll never order steak in this restaurant.



There’s a smiling presence beside me. The young lady from the front counter with my battery recharger, freshly released from its plastic prison. And a nearby power outlet to plug it into.

I look up for a moment, and there’s Qantas’s newest toy, the massive Airbus A380, just pulling into a gate outside the panoramic lounge windows. I’m in planespotter heaven.



I could stretch breakfast out until lunchtime, easy.

But I take the last of my coffee to a workstation near the library. As a BookCrosser and ex-bookseller, I have a duty to release one book each day, and this one’s an easy themed release: The Power of Pleasure. Look for it in the Flounge library.

The library itself is exquisite. All those coffee table books you could never afford? Well, they are here. Sit down with a coffee and leaf through them, sighing with happiness.

I recognize my limitations. If I settled down with these books, I’d surely miss my flight, no matter if it was next week.

There’s free wireless internet and I catch up with emails, pausing to watch now and then as a jet rolls down the runway, soaring up over Botany Bay with amazing grace. Even the A380, the size of an office building, makes it into the air with ridiculous ease.

All too soon my time in heaven is done. I retrieve my recharger, take a last glance around this superb lounge, pose beside my flight on the departure board, and I sink slowly down the escalator, back to the world of normal people.

Smart flying

Immigration,
originally uploaded by skyring.

Sydney to Auckland
Boeing 767-800 VH-QGS
QF43
1145 - 1813

My gate’s about as far away from the lounge as possible, but I’m not pressed for time. In fact, the exercise is good for me.

Overcast and drizzle in Sydney. Our lady captain informs us, a small whinge in her voice, that higher powers have switched the take off direction from south to north at the last moment, meaning everything’s got to be recalculated.

For my part, I’m feeling no pain. There’s champagne flowing for me, and I’m receiving compliments on behalf of my companion, who wins hearts that I leave cold.

“He’s gorgeous,” says Janelle, purveyor of fizz. “He’s wearing the ribbon from a Lindt Easter bear. We have them at Easter.”

This makes sense. I was given Ringbear on Easter Friday in Shrewsbury, two years ago, and the maroon colour of his ribbon is a perfect match for the logo of BBC regional radio.

But we’re a long way from Shropshire today. The overcast extends across the Tasman, and there’s little enjoyment to be had from the view outside.

Instead I select an inflight movie. Get Smart is the obvious choice. My childhood was brightened by this brilliant parody of the James Bond genre. Mel Brooks and Buck Henry made for a sparkling satire, witty wordplay, and a string of catchphrases that smile down the decades.

Max Smart wasn’t. That was his gag. The beautiful Agent 99 was the straightwoman, the brains of the team, diplomatically suggesting the obvious solution to the many problems Max encountered (or created) along the way.

This modern movie has Max as a talented nerd, stealing the heart of a more focused Agent 99. Romance never arose in the original series, or at least not until the end, but this new Maxwell Smart wears his heart on his sleeve. And how clever of the screenplay to have drained all the wit and humour from the concept.

No Audio-Visual on Demand entertainment on this flight. Once I began, I had to stick with the film until the end. But at least there was a bit of bubbly along the way.

A pleasant flight, a good meal, a great seat, with nobody blocking access to the aisle.

There was a glimpse of Auckland between clouds as we descended and turned for the airport. Skytower needle above the city, ferries passing the naval base en route for the holiday suburb of Devonport.

It’s Sydney trimmed down to a manageable size. It’s startling green fields when we pass south of the city, cows on the grass, mudflats turning into tarmac and runways.

New Zealand makes me happy. I came here for my honeymon, and I’ve return several times, each holiday blessed with delight. It’s the scenery, the people, the uncluttered land. It’s the perfect country, tucked away at the end of the world’s airline routes.

There’s a magnificent Maori carving welcoming arriving visitors to Aoteroa, the Land of the Long White Cloud. I wish I had more time here, but I’m barely poking my nose outside the airport this trip.

New Zealand immigration and customs can be tough. I declared my bags full of Tim Tams, and the luggage scan on arrival showed them up clearly. But they passed me through. What they are really looking for are dirty boots. Bring a pair of gumboots into Auckland, and you’d best be prepared to scrub them clean in the arrivals hall.

Dark Inn

Dark Inn,
originally uploaded by skyring.

Ventura Inn, Auckland Airport

Dial 31 on the phone in the “i-Site” room. There’ll be a free shuttle bus along to collect you from outside Door 9 in the international terminal within half an hour. That information took me ten minutes and a $NZ4.20 skinny latte from the nearby coffee shop to acquire.

Mohammed was driving the black bus, and he efficiently loaded up the luggage compartment. My two bright yellow bags amongst all the black nylon.

There’s a special desolation of industrial estates at sundown, and it seemed fitting that the airport inn was located here. It’s the same hotel all over the world in slab concrete sides, every interior space planned to the last millimetre. Cheap, convenient and comfortable for a night between flights.

Checkin was painless enough. I’d given all the details over the website, and it was just a matter of sighting my credit card and signing on a form already preprinted with my details. I organised for my morning shuttle to the airport – six o’clock for an eight thirty flight. They gave me a plastic cardkey, and after a couple of trips up and down in the lift with my luggage, they replaced it with one that actually let me into my room.

I don’t even know why I’m bothering to review this hotel. It’s an airport hotel. It’s the same all over the world. The art prints and bedspreads are the same everywhere. Even the brand names on the instant coffee sachets and plastic milk tubs are universal.

Slot the key into the holder inside the door and the lights turn on. There’s a sighing sound, which may be the airconditioner bumping the atmosphere from inoffensive to bland. A bathroom to my left, basin, bowl and bath, white towels and small bottles of gels. Individually wrapped soaps.

The room itself had a queen and a single. Bedside table with telephone and clock radio. Bed lamps and a master switch for the room light. Facing the beds were, left to right, a small table with two chairs, TV with a working remote, three drawers (top one with Gideon and phone book), desk with chair and internet connection, bar fridge with six tiny tubs of milk, electric jug with tea, coffee, sugar and Milo.

All standard. Clean, tidy, inoffensive, anonymous.

There’s a breakfast area in the lobby, free breakfast from 3am onwards for those early morning departures, a pub and a couple of cafes a block away, and a vending machine on the first floor: cold drinks, chips and chocolate.

Dinner for me was nothing to write home about, so I won’t, but let me just note that the vending machine accepts notes as well as coins.

There was a guest laundry as well, washer and dryer at $NZ2 a pop, soap powder vending machine on the wall and an ironing board. After only one day on the road, I did no more than look in, but if I was a week out, I’d be more enthusiastic. All too often laundry means the hotel charging you fifty dollars for shirt, trousers, socks and jocks. Or wandering around getting lost in dodgy neighbourhoods for the local laundrette.

I noticed a swimming pool as I came in, but I wasn’t dipping.

New Zealand television on a Saturday night was as bland as the room. Football well catered for, but nothing much to my taste, even with a selection of cable channels.

The internet came via an Ethernet connection, and my MacAir doesn’t do anything much besides USB, so I declined the $NZ9.50 day’s worth of internet. I could use the wifi in the lobby for the same price, but I didn’t. Instead I prepared a few emails, notes and pictures for uploading in the morning at the guaranteed airport lounge internet.

I called it a night early on, after setting three different alarms for five AM. Slept soundly on a mattress just a little too soft for discomfort. My room faced the silent carpark, but maybe those looking onto the main road on the western side were noisier. All I know is that the alarm woke me, and that was a double blessing, for it meant I’d had a good night’s sleep and I wasn’t going to miss my flight.

Shower and shave, plenty of hot water at a decent pressure, towels white and fluffy.

Breakfast downstairs of drip coffee, individual cereals, toast, muffins, juice, yoghurt. Standard fare, serve yourself and read the weekend papers from the rack by checkin.

Packed up, not that I’d really unpacked, checked that I’d got all my chargers, and was just heading out the door when the phone rang, to remind me of the shuttle leaving in five minutes.

Checkout took maybe ten seconds, and then I was away on the shuttle, concrete hotel fading into the grey of predawn.

This hotel will never make the inflight magazines, and no New Zealand travelogues will feature the bikini models lazing by the carpark pool.

But it was perfect. A night between flights. Restful, cheap, convenient, exquisitely bespoke to the needs of the air traveler, Sydney one day, Hong Kong the next, scenic New Zealand just a glimpse from the plane window and a few twilight carparks.

Pete's travels, update

I'm in the Yotel capsule hotel in Gatwick South. My baggage is in Singapore, or possibly en route to Dublin, which is where I'm headed in a few hours for a brief stroll around the city and if all is well, I'll get to see Sirroy, Yokospungeon and the new arrival.

Whether my baggage will catch up in time for me to deliver the gifts I selected is a matter of conjecture.

Of more pressing interest to me is that I haven't changed my clothes for a couple of days.

I've got a night in Dublin and then I'm off to the USA, where there are two nights in Alexandria.

I'm detailing my travels at my site http://www.skyring.com.au with pictures on flickr at http://www.flickr.com/photos/skyring/