Whilst I’m not a jet bound workaholic like I thought I’d be when I was this age (ah the naivety of teenagers) I have done my fair share of travel for work. I’ve come to find out that I’m not in either of the extremes of the two camps on it as I’m not particularly adverse to it but neither do I look forward to it like many I have met. Indeed many of the exotic places that I can say I’ve been too were because of work related travel and they truly are experiences that I treasure but should they have become the norm for me I can see myself swiftly becoming sick of it. New places are always fun to visit but I’ve never been on a work trip that wasn’t primarily about work.
It occurred to me that I’d developed a kind of ritual when it came to hotel rooms, something that upon reflection hasn’t changed in quite a while. As far as I can tell I developed it back when I was travelling the USA which I can only assume was because of the multitude of different places we stayed in over the course of the month we spent over there. The reasons for it are simple: I need to know what facilities I have access to and, in the event of the absence, arrange for alternatives. I’m sure this isn’t unique to me either but it was quite interesting to see what habits I had ingrained in myself over the past couple years.
For instance, and this might be a telltale sign of my generation, the first thing I’ll do will be to seek out what kind of Internet connection I have at my disposal. For the most part I’m bound for disappointment, as is the case with my current accommodation ($10 for 24 hours, 700MB limit), but the process of discovering what I’ve got to work with can be quite fun. If I’m in a particularly vindictive move I’ll bust out my network scanner tools and see how well their Internet access scheme has been set up (which, if you’re wondering, hotels seem to be getting better at) but for travel in Australia I’ll usually just tether to my phone.
The next one, which is something of a guilty pleasure of mine, is to crawl through the various pay TV channels to see if they have any of my favorites on them. If Discovery is on there then I’m guaranteed to binge on it for at least an hour each night, usually at the cost of a decent night’s sleep. It gets even worse when you consider just how bad most of the programming on there is and how much of it is continuous repeats but for some reason when I’m in a hotel room that’s one of my top things to do.
I also have to inspect the bed to see if I’ve ended up with a proper bed or the notorious faux-queen (as pictured above). My fellow giants will understand just how irritating those kinds of beds are, especially if they’re paired with an equally tragic mattress.
I think this whole thing just caught me off guard because I didn’t really think of something I had to do after every check in but thinking back to all my stays the first hour or so spent in the room is almost always spent methodically going through each of those items. Is this something that you do? (please say yes, I don’t need another thing that I might be potentially OCD about).
It was almost 20 hours ago that I woke up to the rude sound of my alarm, blaring out random garbles in a feeble attempt to wake me from my slumber. Today was the day I’d set out for the USA and my first plane was due to leave at 8am, just 2 hours away. Wait laid before me was a grand total of 20 hours of flight time and an entire day lost to the mere act of travelling. Still my wife and I were excited for our first long trip overseas together, even though we’d be spending the first 10 days of it apart. With all that running through our heads we made our way to the airport thanks to our good friend Danne, who volunteered his services not only as a chaffer but as our house sitter as well as we gallivanted around the lucky country.
The flight over was not as bad as I had expected. I’d been on a long haul flight before, 8 hours to Japan back in 2001, but this was going to be 13 hours and 33 minutes. The prospect was made even more uncomfortable by the fact that upon checking in we were told that there would be a seat between us, and no indication if it was filled or not. Luckily for us it wasn’t and we enjoyed the extra space and convenience that it provided. I was able to get 6 hours or so of sleep but Rebecca, as always, struggled to get even a couple minutes. She didn’t seem any worse for wear because of it though, but I guess after dealing with insomnia for so many years you get used to running on nothing. The food and service was quite good for the ticket price we paid, I was wholly expecting to get nickel and dimed for each and every little thing but Delta Airlines felt almost identical to the Qantas flight we had taken hours earlier.
A long 13 hours later we were in LAX, the thriving hub of transportation that it is. After disembarking we were lead to immigration where they took not only our entire set of fingerprints but also our photo. I’d known for a long time that the USA had been doing this and whilst I didn’t object to doing it, I still didn’t feel completely comfortable with this piece of security theatre. Still it was painless at least and once we were out of there our bags were waiting for us, ready to be picked up. After spending a confusing 30 minutes trying to figure out where each of us had to go (Rebecca is going onto Canada, myself Orlando) we finally found the shuttle Rebecca had to take. Mere minutes later it arrived and she was whisked away to LAX Terminal 2 where she would catch her flight to Canada.
I stumbled around trying to find my way into the terminal that would take me to my final destination on this leg of my journey, getting hopelessly lost in the desolate landscape of LAX. I eventually found my way there through a long corridor that started evoking images of Orwell’s 1984, with a loudspeaker blaring warnings and my footsteps echoing in the lonely fluorescence. Then I was greeted with the friendly face of the TSA and my first ever American airport security check. They went over everyone’s ID with a UV light, took people’s bottles of water, made everyone take off their shoes and frisked about 1 in every 5 passengers. Suddenly the Australian security checks seemed mild in comparison. I got through with barely a second glance, but yet again I had that terrible feeling that my civil liberties were dying as the USA’s paranoia. This country didn’t make the greatest first impression.
I tried fruitlessly to find wifi and a working ATM, the lifeblood of my generation. None of the ATMs could do a cash withdrawal on my cards, even the Westpac one that’s apparently in cahoots with the Bank of America (which I was trying to use). All the wifi hotspots were either secured or paid portals leaving me disconnected and alone. I did nothing for almost an hour before sitting down to write this, thinking there was no point if I couldn’t publish it right away. Still writing is a great way to pass the time and I still had over an hour before my next flight was scheduled to depart.
The flight to Orlando was painful, even though I lucked out with the emergency exit row. Neither of my temporary travel friends were interested in striking up a conversation and the jet lag was setting in with vengeance. Couple that with my bony ass being unable to find comfort in the seats and it was 5 hours in the air that couldn’t go fast enough. I eventually found solace in one of the books I had picked up (Pandora’s Star by Peter F. Hamilton) and managed to pass the majority of time without too much fuss. Then came the dreaded moment, would my luggage be there to greet me when I landed?
Although I’ve never lost anything through the airports I still have a healthy paranoia about them. If it’s anything but a direct flight I always think it’s going to get lost in the airport machine, doomed to bounce endlessly around the globe while I lay stranded, devoid of my clothes and other miscellany. 10 minutes after landing however there my bag was, just as I had left it at LAX 6 hours earlier. Flush with the victory of picking up my luggage I made a break for my hotel for the night, the Hyatt Regency at the Orlando airport.
Unbeknownst to me the large atrium I had walked through to get my bags was in fact the hotel itself. After grabbing my keys I went to my room, which as it turns out is quite opulent. After quickly changing into something more comfortable I went to the gym for a quick workout before making my way out for dinner. I decided to try the in hotel restaurant, McCoy’s Bar and Grill. The food was so-so but the Californian wine was quite good and the service was unlike anything I had ever experienced before. This definitely was capitalism taken to the extreme where minimum wage workers fight their way out of there by providing you the ultimate in service. Having dinner out in Australia feels like getting spat in the face by comparison.
And now I’ve resigned myself to finishing off the $30 bottle of wine I have beside me and watching the Discovery channel until I pass out. Hopefully my plan skirts around the horrible jet lag I felt earlier, but either way tomorrow I take on the challenge of trying to drive on the wrong side of the road in a Toyota Corolla, in preparation for one of the reasons I came here: to drive a corvette around Florida for a week.