Around the World and Back Again: A Hobbler's Tale

Back in Sydney yesterday at 11.30 a.m., only 5 hours delayed. By the time I deplaned, I could barely walk.

It happened like this: the United flight Cancun-LAX was delayed about an hour. If it had been on time, I would have had a two-hour window to catch the connecting flight, LAX-Sydney. The delayed arrival, though, was not the only problem. All passengers, even transit passengers at US airports, have to collect their luggage, go through customs, and drop off their luggage again for the next flight. For me, this involved hauling the 23 kg dead weight off the corral and lining up to go through customs (removing boots, loading everything on the belt to be scanned). Then I had to go to terminal 7. (Terminal 7 now is to me like Winston Smith's room 101: my greatest fear.)

Terminal 7 was at least one kilometre from the terminal I where I deplaned. Add to this the fear that I knew I was very late. (I didn't know that my connecting flight was delayed because, of course, even though the terminal in Cancun and LA promised wifi connection, there was none. United informed me that the connecting flight was delayed via email, which I was finally able to access when I arrived in Sydney.)

Despite the delay in the connecting flight, I was still very late. Though very old, I almost ran, dragging the dead weight behind me, trying to negotiate dawdling family groups on the footpath in front of me. A much younger Australian woman, much longer of leg, left me in her dust as she whooshed past toward terminal 7.

I finally reached the baggage drop-off desk. A woman said: "Oh, you're too late." I said: "No I'm not. United was late." She looked at my boarding pass and said to another woman: "Her baggage is already checked in." Then she said that she would take it to the baggage loaders to get it on the plane. By that stage, I just wanted to get rid of it, and if she'd said, you can't take it with you, I wouldn't have been very upset. From there, it was a dash to the boarding gate, where boarding had only just begun.

I had wanted to stop, get something to eat and use the "restroom" but I wasn't going to risk missing UA389. (My previous experience of United, on the shorter haul flights, was that they don't provide free food. And what they sell, at inflated prices, is faux food: crackers, chips, nuts, prepackaged noodles, etc. I looked forward to a 15-hour fast; as it turned out, UA provides free airline "food" and soft drinks on the longer hauls.)

After I wedged myself into the window seat, I realised there was a new pain in my right knee (my good one). Raising the right leg, lowering it, leaving it bent with foot resting on the floor, and walking on it, all gave me pain. A large silent man, who communicated with me by pointing, sat next to me. (I thought that maybe he could not speak when I saw him signing to a little girl on the opposite side of the plane.)

The large man usurped the armrest and as the flight progressed, items of his clothing moved further into my space and wedged me nearer to the window. He snored a bit, farted a bit. Such are the joys of air travel. I didn't know if I'd ever be able to get out to visit the "rest room", so I determined to try to hold it until I saw the woman on the aisle get up, and then I'd broach the subject with the man. If the woman did move, I missed it. Must have nodded off a couple of times, since it was way past my usual 10 p.m. lights out by the time I boarded the plane. Finally, when my self-control was about to give out, I asked the man if I could get out.

When we landed in Sydney, the large silent man began chatting with the woman on the aisle. Not sure why I wasn't blessed with his vocalisation during the flight, but this is just another of life's little mysteries.

I got out of the terminal and my very good, very patient friend, I learned later, was waiting to pick me up, as she had promised she would be. Only, I tried to ring her, but the useless Austpost travelsim was not working. I asked the Pacific islander sat outside the terminal on the same bench as me, if I could use his phone to make a call, as mine wasn't working. I offered him $2. But I'm not sure he understood English or what I was suggesting for the $2. Then I thought: Shall I cry now or put it off until I get home?

I tried the phone again and I managed to get through to my friend's number, but only to voicemail. I wasn't sure if my friend was at the airport, or where she might be. I knew if I were in the wrong spot, I wouldn't be able to walk to the right spot. (When I got home, I got her email telling me where she'd be.) Please forgive me!

So, I'm very sorry to have burdened you with this detailed exploration of the last flight of the journey; I'm sure you also have your tales of torture by long-distance carriers. However, I want to log this experience, so that it becomes something I can refer to in future. We forget these things; we spend minutes and hours, and days of our lives going through these unpleasant (or pleasant) experiences, and I want to remember them.

Not to savour them, so much, as to be able to account for the time spent and the way it was spent.