I must admit, the journey over was a bit disastrous. After a week of very little sleep, frantically tying up loose ends and packing up my life into boxes and two overstuffed suitcases, I finally bid farewell to my Northridge home on the evening of December 29th, 2010. My brother, Bobak, and sister, Bahar, were the ones to take me to LAX and see me off. Once we got there, all three of us began the mad hustle of shifting the kilos from one suitcase to the other. As I knelt on the floor of Tom Bradley International Terminal next to these two monstrous bags, I thought to myself, "Do I really need all this crap?" Too late.
It was time to head to my gate. Watching my sister's eyes fill with tears, I quickly kissed her and my brother goodbye and promised them I'd see them soon down under. I never do well with goodbyes, and this one wasn't any easier. So, I marched over to security with at least 40 pounds on my back, and I proceeded like the rest of the travelling sheep through the TSA screening checkpoint. Living up to their reputation, TSA pulled me aside and took apart my perfectly packed carry-on bit by bit. I'm a frequent traveller, so I wasn't surprised (though I was a little irritated) to hear that everything in my carry-on had passed their standards. Desperate and exhausted, I was left there to figure out how to put the pieces of my puzzle back together.
At this point, I was dripping with sweat. I trod to the gate and plonked myself down in the first open seat I could find. There wasn't much time until boarding, but I really needed to catch my breath. "Oh bloody hell," I thought, "I haven't bought any duty-free booze!" So I was up again, madly searching for a duty-free shop with a decent selection of alcohol. Nothing in the shop was to my liking and I gave up, resigning to the idea that I would somehow have a better selection onboard the flight. Getting myself back to the gate, I was elated to see they had begun boarding. When they called my row, I was one of the first in queue to board Qantas flight 12, direct from LAX to SYD. I wanted to wait no longer!
Qantas is a great airline, and if you happen to be flying this route, I highly recommend considering them as your carrier. In an airline, I look for good food, good service and consistent punctuality. Qantas delivers on all three. For dinner, I had the grilled Mahi Mahi with a glass of Australian Pinot Grigio. I watched the first half of Inception and the first 20 minutes of I'm Still Here, each time dozing into a drug-induced sleep. (Word to the wise: take some sort of sleep-aid when you've got a long flight ahead of you.) Before I knew it, breakfast was being served and we were just an hour from landing.
I felt both serene and excited, as we descended to Sydney's Kingsford Smith International Airport. The last time I visited, I was pleasantly surprised by how effortlessly I managed to pass through the infamously stringent Australian customs. This time, I wasn't too worried that I would be out of there in no time. Unfortunately, I was sorely mistaken. (Second word to the wise: DO NOT TRAVEL ON A PUBLIC HOLIDAY.) Having left Los Angeles on December 29th, I arrived into Sydney on December 31st--perhaps, the most popular day of the year to be in Sydney. People from all over the world come here on this day to marvel at the New Year's Eve fireworks spectacular over the Sydney Harbour. "Well," I thought, "I might as well take my time and check out the duty-free shops on this end." About 20 minutes later, happily loaded with Tanqueray and Bailey's, I proceeded to passport control and customs with a serious look of determination on my face.
Passport control alone took at least half a sweaty hour in queue...the entire time with my behemoth of a backpack weighing me down. I thought I was going to faint. Finally, I showed the officer my passport, and he graciously allowed me into Australia. I was so relieved to not have to carry my bag anymore that I failed to notice the mosh pit of travellers fighting to get through customs. The first thing I did was grab a trolley and unload my backpack. It still hurts my neck to think of carrying that thing around. Then, I frantically searched for my baggage carousel, crossing back and forth several times before eventually locating baggage carousel 13. Oh the irony of it all...
Still, my main objective was to get myself out of that horrible place as soon as possible. I spotted my massive suitcases quickly (how could I miss them??), and I struggled to heave them off the carousel onto my trolley. I was rather disappointed to find that one of them had suffered some war wounds on the journey over. It looked like a rabid dog had torn a big hole through it! "Oh well--focus on the task at hand!" I thought. I pushed the trolley over to the first mile-long queue I saw, and I waited there impatiently. A customs officer saw that I was travelling alone, and he approached me with some golden advice.
"Anything to declare?" he asked.
"No. Nothing," I answered back.
He pointed me in the direction of a yellow exit door for those who had "Nothing to Declare."
This group of people weren't really in a queue, but rather in a disorganised mess of sweaty travellers, duffle bags, trolleys and suitcases--all trying to squeeze through that inviting yellow door. I eased over to the mess and tried to shimmy my way to the front. Somehow, I managed to get through without having a panic attack. And though the experience was extremely unpleasant, I did get out of the customs hall much quicker than I would have through the other doors.
Practically flying into the arrivals terminal--pushing at least 75 kilos worth of baggage--I spotted my boyfriend, Dan, from afar, and I rushed over to give him a big sweaty kiss. I felt sheer relief that I made it through customs alive, and although I was a bit drowsy, I was ready for the evening's festivities to come. Dan escorted me to his mum's Ford, and at that moment, my Aussie adventure began.
When you travel, you learn something new every step of the way. I would like to share with you the moral of this particular step of my journey: Pack light.
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