I spend a week and a half in Washington at a big law conference. It's a wonderful visit, topped off by a visit to Blues Alley jazz club in Georgetown. I bought tickets online a few weeks beforehand, and it's a good thing I did, because on the day of the show when I check the web site for the address, I see that both shows are now sold out.
I arrive early and the girl outside advises me to come back half an hour before the show, as that's when people will start to line up. After wandering up and down the main streets, I return to find a queue already forming. We stand there in the warm night air for twenty minutes or so. A red sports car meanders up the narrow lane, and we all have to press ourselves against the wall to allow it to pass. When the people emerge from the earlier show, they have big smiles on their faces. "It's great!" they say.
We are seeing the same act, Roy Ayers and band. I'm there on my own, and am escorted to a little table near the stage. The place is packed; tables jammed together. Only the waiting staff can move through the crowd. Then an elderly gentleman works his way past the row of tables where I'm sitting. "Hello", he says, with a big smile, and makes his way to the stage. They proceed to cook up a storm with hits such as "In the Sunshine" and "Searching". What an atmosphere he creates! The crowd goes wild with adoration. Too soon, the show is over. When Roy once again passes by my table, I clasp his hand in mine.
Next day, after exploring some markets, I'm ready to head home. I message my husband to tell him I'm at the airport, all checked in and ready to board. I glance at the departure board; the flight is delayed. And again. The departure time keeps getting later. I ask at the desk if there's an earlier flight I can take to Dallas. I'm worried I won't make my connection to Australia. They confirm that I can't possibly make the flight.
When it comes time to board, the announcement is full of panic. We have to hurry to get on board. There's bad weather coming, and we only have a certain amount of time to reach our destination. We will have no time to search for space in the overhead lockers, so all "roll-aboard" cases will have to be taken and put into the hold.
Dutifully I hand over my cabin bag and board the flight. Two and a half hours later we arrive in Dallas. It's late at night and I'm tired from my busy week. I wait at the luggage carousel, until I'm the only one left. No luggage for me. Not a single bag. I line up at the luggage desk and explain that I'll need my cabin bag for my long-haul flight. "No, there's no way you'll get that back", they say. "It's been checked through to Australia. It will be locked in a room with the other baggage and you cannot get it."
My first thought is - it's lucky I didn't leave my passport in that bag.
My whole bunch of keys is in there.
I point out that I have nothing but a handbag; not even a toothbrush. The girl hands me a grey "amenities" pouch containing a few ghastly toiletry products, a toothbrush and a little comb. She advises me to come back to the airport at 7 am to find out about my onward journey. Qantas departs from Terminal D, and there's a hotel there. She points me towards the exit and the shuttle buses. Clutching my handbag and amenities pouch, I board a bus and get out at Terminal D. I head up to the hotel and ask for a room. "Sorry, we're booked out tonight". Really? Apparently there's another hotel at Terminal C.
I wander back out into the night and board another shuttle bus. This one is headed for Terminal E and onwards. So we make a complete circuit of the entire airport complex, eventually stopping at C. I step out, and a fellow passenger follows. I confront him and say "Where are you going?" He's looking for the hotel too. "Right, we are going to do this together", I assert. We navigate our way through a deserted airport, then venture into the parking station. We can see the hotel tower across the way, but how on earth do we reach it? It's like being contestants on Survivor. We follow signs towards the hotel, that don't seem to lead anywhere. As if in a Harry Potter film, we can see overpass bridges leading to the next area, but we are always on the wrong level to access them. Up stairs and down stairs, through walkways, eventually we reach the hotel.
Yes, they have two rooms available. I had been wondering what we would do if there was only one room.
My phone is nearly dead, and I get them to bring me a phone charger. Once it starts to charge I start to feel better. I go onto the Qantas web site, but it has no news for me; it's still showing the original itinerary. I text my husband to let him know I'm stranded in Dallas with just a handbag. I contact the travel agent, asking for help. She says she'll sort it out for me. Later she texts to say the wait time on the phone to Qantas is more than an hour. She asks me to leave my phone on during the night so she can send me news. If I have a morning flight I'll need to be ready to leave.
It's 2 am and I take a shower. This hotel doesn't have a shower cap or a bath robe. I have only the clothes I've been wearing all day. I call Reception to see if I can have a late checkout or an extra night if necessary. They tell me I have to be out by noon, and there is no chance of another night, as they are fully booked.
I guess they do a good trade in missed connections.
I get into bed and try to sleep. Throughout the night the phone rings. It's not the travel agent; probably calls forwarded from the office from people who are trying to sell me things. I don't answer, as I pay for incoming calls when I'm overseas. The lawn-mowing guy texts me to say we owe him $45. At 6 am the travel agent texts me my new flight details. I'll be flying at 6.30 pm. So now I turn off the phone and doze fitfully for a few hours. I get dressed in the same clothes and check out of the hotel. The manager plunders the Lost Property box to find me a phone charger and a headset.
At the airport I buy a few things for my flight, and notice a place where you can have a massage. Yes, please. Gratefully I lie down and soak up the pleasure of having big dollops of fragrant cream rubbed into my skin. It's so good, I decide to have a facial as well. My skin is feeling terrible, as I have nothing to put on it. But after the facial it feels wonderful; properly cleansed, exfoliated and moisturised with emollient creams. This will last me for the whole flight.
I have to fly to Los Angeles to connect with a flight to Melbourne. The three-hour flight is crammed. All around me, people are coughing and sneezing. I don't stand a chance - I can already feel a cold coming on.
It's a relief to board the international flight to Melbourne - the middle seat is empty, giving me some extra space.
In Melbourne, no baggage arrives for me. I go to the desk and ask them to search for it. On the bright side, I don't have to schlepp the bags through the airport. I'm choosing the "home-delivery" option.
Eventually I arrive back home. My husband reckons that it's taken me three days to get home.
I am dead tired and I have a cold. This is not good when I have to sing in a restaurant next week. Hopefully there is time for me to recover.
My bags eventually arrive three days later.
I find myself thinking "I hate travel".
I know I sound like a spoilt brat. It's such a privilege to be able to see the world.
I do love travel, but sometimes getting there is not "half the fun" but no fun at all.
And the thought that soon I will be doing it all again, heading to Brazil, makes me wonder what on earth I'm doing.
I arrive early and the girl outside advises me to come back half an hour before the show, as that's when people will start to line up. After wandering up and down the main streets, I return to find a queue already forming. We stand there in the warm night air for twenty minutes or so. A red sports car meanders up the narrow lane, and we all have to press ourselves against the wall to allow it to pass. When the people emerge from the earlier show, they have big smiles on their faces. "It's great!" they say.
We are seeing the same act, Roy Ayers and band. I'm there on my own, and am escorted to a little table near the stage. The place is packed; tables jammed together. Only the waiting staff can move through the crowd. Then an elderly gentleman works his way past the row of tables where I'm sitting. "Hello", he says, with a big smile, and makes his way to the stage. They proceed to cook up a storm with hits such as "In the Sunshine" and "Searching". What an atmosphere he creates! The crowd goes wild with adoration. Too soon, the show is over. When Roy once again passes by my table, I clasp his hand in mine.
Next day, after exploring some markets, I'm ready to head home. I message my husband to tell him I'm at the airport, all checked in and ready to board. I glance at the departure board; the flight is delayed. And again. The departure time keeps getting later. I ask at the desk if there's an earlier flight I can take to Dallas. I'm worried I won't make my connection to Australia. They confirm that I can't possibly make the flight.
When it comes time to board, the announcement is full of panic. We have to hurry to get on board. There's bad weather coming, and we only have a certain amount of time to reach our destination. We will have no time to search for space in the overhead lockers, so all "roll-aboard" cases will have to be taken and put into the hold.
Dutifully I hand over my cabin bag and board the flight. Two and a half hours later we arrive in Dallas. It's late at night and I'm tired from my busy week. I wait at the luggage carousel, until I'm the only one left. No luggage for me. Not a single bag. I line up at the luggage desk and explain that I'll need my cabin bag for my long-haul flight. "No, there's no way you'll get that back", they say. "It's been checked through to Australia. It will be locked in a room with the other baggage and you cannot get it."
My first thought is - it's lucky I didn't leave my passport in that bag.
My whole bunch of keys is in there.
I point out that I have nothing but a handbag; not even a toothbrush. The girl hands me a grey "amenities" pouch containing a few ghastly toiletry products, a toothbrush and a little comb. She advises me to come back to the airport at 7 am to find out about my onward journey. Qantas departs from Terminal D, and there's a hotel there. She points me towards the exit and the shuttle buses. Clutching my handbag and amenities pouch, I board a bus and get out at Terminal D. I head up to the hotel and ask for a room. "Sorry, we're booked out tonight". Really? Apparently there's another hotel at Terminal C.
I wander back out into the night and board another shuttle bus. This one is headed for Terminal E and onwards. So we make a complete circuit of the entire airport complex, eventually stopping at C. I step out, and a fellow passenger follows. I confront him and say "Where are you going?" He's looking for the hotel too. "Right, we are going to do this together", I assert. We navigate our way through a deserted airport, then venture into the parking station. We can see the hotel tower across the way, but how on earth do we reach it? It's like being contestants on Survivor. We follow signs towards the hotel, that don't seem to lead anywhere. As if in a Harry Potter film, we can see overpass bridges leading to the next area, but we are always on the wrong level to access them. Up stairs and down stairs, through walkways, eventually we reach the hotel.
Yes, they have two rooms available. I had been wondering what we would do if there was only one room.
My phone is nearly dead, and I get them to bring me a phone charger. Once it starts to charge I start to feel better. I go onto the Qantas web site, but it has no news for me; it's still showing the original itinerary. I text my husband to let him know I'm stranded in Dallas with just a handbag. I contact the travel agent, asking for help. She says she'll sort it out for me. Later she texts to say the wait time on the phone to Qantas is more than an hour. She asks me to leave my phone on during the night so she can send me news. If I have a morning flight I'll need to be ready to leave.
It's 2 am and I take a shower. This hotel doesn't have a shower cap or a bath robe. I have only the clothes I've been wearing all day. I call Reception to see if I can have a late checkout or an extra night if necessary. They tell me I have to be out by noon, and there is no chance of another night, as they are fully booked.
I guess they do a good trade in missed connections.
I get into bed and try to sleep. Throughout the night the phone rings. It's not the travel agent; probably calls forwarded from the office from people who are trying to sell me things. I don't answer, as I pay for incoming calls when I'm overseas. The lawn-mowing guy texts me to say we owe him $45. At 6 am the travel agent texts me my new flight details. I'll be flying at 6.30 pm. So now I turn off the phone and doze fitfully for a few hours. I get dressed in the same clothes and check out of the hotel. The manager plunders the Lost Property box to find me a phone charger and a headset.
At the airport I buy a few things for my flight, and notice a place where you can have a massage. Yes, please. Gratefully I lie down and soak up the pleasure of having big dollops of fragrant cream rubbed into my skin. It's so good, I decide to have a facial as well. My skin is feeling terrible, as I have nothing to put on it. But after the facial it feels wonderful; properly cleansed, exfoliated and moisturised with emollient creams. This will last me for the whole flight.
I have to fly to Los Angeles to connect with a flight to Melbourne. The three-hour flight is crammed. All around me, people are coughing and sneezing. I don't stand a chance - I can already feel a cold coming on.
It's a relief to board the international flight to Melbourne - the middle seat is empty, giving me some extra space.
In Melbourne, no baggage arrives for me. I go to the desk and ask them to search for it. On the bright side, I don't have to schlepp the bags through the airport. I'm choosing the "home-delivery" option.
Eventually I arrive back home. My husband reckons that it's taken me three days to get home.
I am dead tired and I have a cold. This is not good when I have to sing in a restaurant next week. Hopefully there is time for me to recover.
My bags eventually arrive three days later.
I find myself thinking "I hate travel".
I know I sound like a spoilt brat. It's such a privilege to be able to see the world.
I do love travel, but sometimes getting there is not "half the fun" but no fun at all.
And the thought that soon I will be doing it all again, heading to Brazil, makes me wonder what on earth I'm doing.
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