skyring

The worst seats in my whole airline experience belong to Qantas. I hate them. Sit down in the lounge for the international transfer bus and my entire backside area becomes aware of the bones of the seat.

A ten minute wait here can seem like an eternity, especially if every moment spent here is one fewer in the Qantas First Lounge on the other side of the main runway. Just sayin’, Qantas, you want to make a lot of people happy, put in some old economy class seats here. Or maybe a few cushions from K-Mart.

The trip to the international terminal is always a highlight. “Wow,” said one of the touring party of schoolkids, “that’s an Airbus 380 right there!”

And it was. Enormous in a maintenance hangar as big as a block of flats. Bigger.

There’s always something to see from tarmac level. Old jets and new ones, exotic birds at the cargo ramp, jumbos with engineers tinkering under the hood, the underneath of the terminal building as we pull in.

Out into the checkin area. Odd. Usually we head straight into passport control, but we’re back in the real world for a moment.

Probably a good thing that they no longer stamp passports in and out of Australia and New Zealand. My book would be full.

Security check and as ever, Kerri is way ahead of me as I stuff things back into pockets. At least I keep my shoes and belt on. America lies ahead and I’ll have to use one hand to hoist my baggy britches up as I shuffle through the realm of the security jerk.

More delay as the path leads through the streets of the duty free kingdom. One day they’ll just debit my card as I walk through and present me at the exit with a bright yellow sack of stuff I don’t need. It’d be quicker.

Escalator up to the land of the gods. Qantas First. My second favourite place in the world. Favourite place is beside a beautiful woman, and I’m doubly blest at the moment.

The design is superb, product of a thoughtful and practical mind. One that knows what frequent flyers like. Tall windows giving an uninterrupted view out over the tarmac. Huge jetliners landing, taking off and cavorting just beyond the glass.

A proper sit down meal service. Smiling waiters. Champagne. I stumble over the pronunciation of Veuve devaux. High school French never covered this. Je l’aime bien les vins bubblie.

Duck parfait with cherry jam and toasted brioche for starters, and the fish for main. Both supremely presented. Taste to match. God, but I love this place!

Dessert is irresistible. I quote: “Chocolate brownie with strawberry icecream, strawberry salad and hot fudge sauce.”

If they didn’t call my flight I’d still be there, a human superjumbo in a crystal hangar.