Getting rid of the evidence
Germany is green, and recycling big-time, but a problems for us is that the recycling facilities are off the main town square, adjacent to flash shops and the longest bar in the world. This means carting a granny-shopping-trundler (a humiliation in itself), overflowing with empty bottles, through the streets to get rid of the evidence of Christmas day. The loud and unmistakable clanking of empty bottles over cobbled streets leaves no doubt of the content of what could have otherwise been an innocent looking shopping trundler.
There is little wrong with having a few bottles, but this is like trying to get rid, discretely, of a small container load, the remnants of Fleur’s pre-Christmas excursion to the exclusive champagne houses of Reims (to ensure quality) and our trips to the local supermarket for 3 euro bottles of Chianti (to ensure quantity).
The recycling facilities are like elevated shutes set into the pavement, down which you can pop your empties, sorted into green glass, brown and white. Like a magician’s hat, the bottles just keep coming, and I half expect to turn around to be applauded by the local shopkeepers, impressed at how many bottles can be produced from such an innocent looking shopping trundler.
Alongside me are local women in their fabulous furs, each with only a few bottles to dispose of, but we find common ground, engaging in broken Germglaise about into which shute should go the bottles which appear neither distinctly green or brown, but possibly either. One each we conclude and I head home to fill the trundler with the bottles we couldn’t fit in for the first trip.
Only this time, I’ll wait until the dead of night.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
The fondue flashback
Fleur’s Belgian friend, Thomas, returned last night from his family Christmas in Gent to cook dinner for us, a fondue. Clearly he has gone to a great deal of trouble, bringing back with him his family’s fondue set, along with carefully prepared ingredients: cubes of chicken, turkey, and pork, minced meat balls of various varieties, and little sausages wrapped in bacon. Best of all, he has brought back a 1.5 litre bottle of 1995 Chateau Labegorce Lede Margaux which he has chosen from his 88-year-old grandfather’s wine cellar. What a thoughtful young man, we say, stealing from his grandfather to impress us.
But back to the fondue, we tell Thomas that fondue was very big in New Zealand in the 1970s and is customarily the entree to the main course of wife swapping. For a moment, he looks at us in sheer panic, but then retorts that the Belgian custom is that whoever loses their meat off the fondue fork into the oil has to wash the dishes. A narrow escape, and the meal is finished off with a nice Central Otago Pinot Noir we have brought from New Zealand.
Fleur’s Belgian friend, Thomas, returned last night from his family Christmas in Gent to cook dinner for us, a fondue. Clearly he has gone to a great deal of trouble, bringing back with him his family’s fondue set, along with carefully prepared ingredients: cubes of chicken, turkey, and pork, minced meat balls of various varieties, and little sausages wrapped in bacon. Best of all, he has brought back a 1.5 litre bottle of 1995 Chateau Labegorce Lede Margaux which he has chosen from his 88-year-old grandfather’s wine cellar. What a thoughtful young man, we say, stealing from his grandfather to impress us.
But back to the fondue, we tell Thomas that fondue was very big in New Zealand in the 1970s and is customarily the entree to the main course of wife swapping. For a moment, he looks at us in sheer panic, but then retorts that the Belgian custom is that whoever loses their meat off the fondue fork into the oil has to wash the dishes. A narrow escape, and the meal is finished off with a nice Central Otago Pinot Noir we have brought from New Zealand.
Monday, December 29, 2008
The Dusseldorf cartwheelers
Among the weird pastimes of the inhabitants of this city is cartwheeling. The brochures tell us that it all started 700 years ago when the local children cartwheeled for joy after the Dusseldorfers’ victorious battle against the Archbishop of Cologne near Worringen (1288). The cartwheeler is described as the lovable symbol of the city and its living traditions; kids now cartwheel as a way of busking, although the tradition is to give only a penny which I guess we can run to. Better, I suppose, than the daily gauntlet of falun gongers we have to run to get in and out of our apartment to go anywhere.
The grey, raining Dusseldorf days have been replaced by sunny ones, but with that the real cold has set in. Brisk, it could charitably be described as, but then not too brisk to keep us entirely indoors. Boxing Day, we went up the local 170 metre high tower which provided us brilliant views of the city and region. 170 metres is bloody high and it took more than a few minutes for the legs to stabilize enough to wander around and enjoy the view.
Among the weird pastimes of the inhabitants of this city is cartwheeling. The brochures tell us that it all started 700 years ago when the local children cartwheeled for joy after the Dusseldorfers’ victorious battle against the Archbishop of Cologne near Worringen (1288). The cartwheeler is described as the lovable symbol of the city and its living traditions; kids now cartwheel as a way of busking, although the tradition is to give only a penny which I guess we can run to. Better, I suppose, than the daily gauntlet of falun gongers we have to run to get in and out of our apartment to go anywhere.
The grey, raining Dusseldorf days have been replaced by sunny ones, but with that the real cold has set in. Brisk, it could charitably be described as, but then not too brisk to keep us entirely indoors. Boxing Day, we went up the local 170 metre high tower which provided us brilliant views of the city and region. 170 metres is bloody high and it took more than a few minutes for the legs to stabilize enough to wander around and enjoy the view.
Dogs are people too
It may be true, and then it may not, but apparently dogs can fly into Frankfurt airport in the passenger cabins of commercial Emirates and Lufthansa airliners. All that’s required is a muzzle and perhaps a valid passport. The only place in the world we are told that such happens, and we’re eagerly awaiting the spectacle of dogs sitting up in seats beside their owners, choosing X-rated movies and tucking into the schnapps. Do puppies get priority rights to the basinets by the best seats at the front of the cabin?
If the French have a reputation for loving their dogs, so too the Germans. Everyone has at least one and, dressed for winter, they go everywhere; restaurants, trains, exclusive department stores and, yes, even our exclusive champagne bar. The homeless even receive higher social welfare allowances if they have a dog or two in tow.
These dogs are not just fluffy little carpet-slippers, the neighbor here, and we are five floors up, has a big brown hairy thing resembling a grizzly bear which wanders around and comes in here if the door is left ajar.
It may be true, and then it may not, but apparently dogs can fly into Frankfurt airport in the passenger cabins of commercial Emirates and Lufthansa airliners. All that’s required is a muzzle and perhaps a valid passport. The only place in the world we are told that such happens, and we’re eagerly awaiting the spectacle of dogs sitting up in seats beside their owners, choosing X-rated movies and tucking into the schnapps. Do puppies get priority rights to the basinets by the best seats at the front of the cabin?
If the French have a reputation for loving their dogs, so too the Germans. Everyone has at least one and, dressed for winter, they go everywhere; restaurants, trains, exclusive department stores and, yes, even our exclusive champagne bar. The homeless even receive higher social welfare allowances if they have a dog or two in tow.
These dogs are not just fluffy little carpet-slippers, the neighbor here, and we are five floors up, has a big brown hairy thing resembling a grizzly bear which wanders around and comes in here if the door is left ajar.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Recession, what recession?
Kaelene and I toasted an early Christmas in splendid fashion in a rather elegant version, displaying good posture at a very posh bar, in a very posh food area of a very posh shopping establishment, sipping a flute each of Moet. It must be confessed that we took the modest option, as this establishment purveys, as its tipple of choice, Dom Perignon, by the flute. As the saying goes, if you have to ask the price you cannot afford to be there, but on this occasion we’ll tell - the Perignon is 20 euro a flute ($NZ50), while the Moet a mere 10, excepting the special reserve at 12.50 euro a pop.
We had intended to have a flute each of Dom as our Christmas present to each other, but were spooked by the price into the more modest Moet. We have, however, resolved to summons the courage for Dom on New Years’ Eve.
What a great spectator sport. Watching the local equivalent of hooray Harry’s and their wonderfully turned out fraus, chugging back Doms at the rate of their three to our one Moet. There when we arrived, still there when we left, their tabs apparently not a worry at all. This is a tough recession indeed.
Kaelene and I toasted an early Christmas in splendid fashion in a rather elegant version, displaying good posture at a very posh bar, in a very posh food area of a very posh shopping establishment, sipping a flute each of Moet. It must be confessed that we took the modest option, as this establishment purveys, as its tipple of choice, Dom Perignon, by the flute. As the saying goes, if you have to ask the price you cannot afford to be there, but on this occasion we’ll tell - the Perignon is 20 euro a flute ($NZ50), while the Moet a mere 10, excepting the special reserve at 12.50 euro a pop.
We had intended to have a flute each of Dom as our Christmas present to each other, but were spooked by the price into the more modest Moet. We have, however, resolved to summons the courage for Dom on New Years’ Eve.
What a great spectator sport. Watching the local equivalent of hooray Harry’s and their wonderfully turned out fraus, chugging back Doms at the rate of their three to our one Moet. There when we arrived, still there when we left, their tabs apparently not a worry at all. This is a tough recession indeed.
Maori food
“It must be Maori food?” the stall keeper offered by way of response to our question as to whether he had yams. He hadn’t heard of yams, but after asking what country we were from delivered us an impressive repertoire of facts New Zealand; the North and South Islands, Wellington the capital, and, naturally, Lord of the Rings.
Trawling the local market for Christmas dinner food, we did find yams. Purple-black French yams, one each for the seven or eight of us here for Christmas dinner. That is in addition to new spuds, parsnip, brussel sprouts, broccoli, pumpkin and New Zealand lamb ($NZ50 for 1.5kg) with mint sauce and chicken. This to be followed by fresh fruit salad and pavlova.
We are being joined for Christmas dinner by Josh Cavanagh from Chch, and several friends of Jade and Fleur. Us Kiwis will celebrate Christmas on Christmas day, not like the locals, who close up shop at 2.00pm Christmas Eve and go home to start their festivities. On second thoughts, maybe that is a good idea.
“It must be Maori food?” the stall keeper offered by way of response to our question as to whether he had yams. He hadn’t heard of yams, but after asking what country we were from delivered us an impressive repertoire of facts New Zealand; the North and South Islands, Wellington the capital, and, naturally, Lord of the Rings.
Trawling the local market for Christmas dinner food, we did find yams. Purple-black French yams, one each for the seven or eight of us here for Christmas dinner. That is in addition to new spuds, parsnip, brussel sprouts, broccoli, pumpkin and New Zealand lamb ($NZ50 for 1.5kg) with mint sauce and chicken. This to be followed by fresh fruit salad and pavlova.
We are being joined for Christmas dinner by Josh Cavanagh from Chch, and several friends of Jade and Fleur. Us Kiwis will celebrate Christmas on Christmas day, not like the locals, who close up shop at 2.00pm Christmas Eve and go home to start their festivities. On second thoughts, maybe that is a good idea.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
The only trial getting home
Let’s start with the adventure, albeit a moderate one. We are on a four hour, night rail journey home from Nuremberg on a train scheduled to stop at Dusseldorf. It stops at a suburban station at Cologne, but it is soon apparent we are the only people left in the carriage. Only the front half of the train, it appears, goes to Dusseldorf, the rest somewhere else. While we got off in time to avoid going somewhere else, we failed to make the dash up the platform to the front half of the train we needed to be on and watched it pulling out of the station without us. Stranded in the dark of night, without any sense of where we were or how to get to where we needed to be, and with the booking office and shops all closed for the evening, it illustrated just what a problem it is not being able to understand simple passenger announcements.
But to Nuremberg, what a city? We decided not to let persistent rain stop us literally soaking in the atmosphere - exploring and prowling through the Christmas markets (the ornaments are to die for, although generally quite expensive), shops and buildings, and the Imperial Palace at the top of the town.
A few interesting observations include that Germans have allotments, but much more ordered than their UK equivalents and the countryside quite similar to much in New Zealand and the UK. Must be the weather.
Let’s start with the adventure, albeit a moderate one. We are on a four hour, night rail journey home from Nuremberg on a train scheduled to stop at Dusseldorf. It stops at a suburban station at Cologne, but it is soon apparent we are the only people left in the carriage. Only the front half of the train, it appears, goes to Dusseldorf, the rest somewhere else. While we got off in time to avoid going somewhere else, we failed to make the dash up the platform to the front half of the train we needed to be on and watched it pulling out of the station without us. Stranded in the dark of night, without any sense of where we were or how to get to where we needed to be, and with the booking office and shops all closed for the evening, it illustrated just what a problem it is not being able to understand simple passenger announcements.
But to Nuremberg, what a city? We decided not to let persistent rain stop us literally soaking in the atmosphere - exploring and prowling through the Christmas markets (the ornaments are to die for, although generally quite expensive), shops and buildings, and the Imperial Palace at the top of the town.
A few interesting observations include that Germans have allotments, but much more ordered than their UK equivalents and the countryside quite similar to much in New Zealand and the UK. Must be the weather.
Photo: Dog Christmas busking with his father, Nuremberg
Who the hallelujah is Alexandra Burke?
How can it be that some girl who no-one has ever heard can perform an entirely ordinary cover of one of the great songs from a certain old Buddhist master and it gets to be the UK No 1 Christmas song? And then a campaign for another cover of the same song gets that one to be No 2? Why is it that Leonard Cohen languishes behind them in spot number 36; although I suppose it is the first time the original of his 1984 Hallelujah has ever charted in the UK top 40? And why is it that he is playing in New Zealand while we are at the opposite end of the earth?
How can it be that some girl who no-one has ever heard can perform an entirely ordinary cover of one of the great songs from a certain old Buddhist master and it gets to be the UK No 1 Christmas song? And then a campaign for another cover of the same song gets that one to be No 2? Why is it that Leonard Cohen languishes behind them in spot number 36; although I suppose it is the first time the original of his 1984 Hallelujah has ever charted in the UK top 40? And why is it that he is playing in New Zealand while we are at the opposite end of the earth?
To rauch or not to rauch
Apparently easily given to hyperbole, Dusseldorf claims to be (rather than to have) the world’s longest bar; in reality something akin to a more packed version of Christchurch’s Strip of restaurants and bars, all with outdoor tables and heating. Many of the bars describe themselves as Raucherclubs, or smoking clubs, introduced to get around the German smoking ban in bars. When the ban was introduced many of the local bars turned themselves into these smoking clubs and patrons simply had to sign in free as a member. The result, the smoking ban has become totally ineffective and unenforced, and smoking in bars is as it was in New Zealand a decade ago.
This is not an encouragement to the Hospitality Association to follow suit.
Apparently easily given to hyperbole, Dusseldorf claims to be (rather than to have) the world’s longest bar; in reality something akin to a more packed version of Christchurch’s Strip of restaurants and bars, all with outdoor tables and heating. Many of the bars describe themselves as Raucherclubs, or smoking clubs, introduced to get around the German smoking ban in bars. When the ban was introduced many of the local bars turned themselves into these smoking clubs and patrons simply had to sign in free as a member. The result, the smoking ban has become totally ineffective and unenforced, and smoking in bars is as it was in New Zealand a decade ago.
This is not an encouragement to the Hospitality Association to follow suit.
The barman marks our cards
Mention of the bratwurst, the food here is delicious, and last Friday’s lunch at a local brewery restaurant seems to have kept us going for almost a day. New spuds (boiled or fried), big dollops of tender meat and red cabbage in a sauce. Bloody good comfort food, and not a sauerkraut in sight. One amazing thing, the barman keeps a tab of how many drinks you’ve had by marking your beer mat, one pencil stroke for each beer. Why is it that Germans don’t go to the pub with a pencil and/or eraser? Kiwis would.
Mention of the bratwurst, the food here is delicious, and last Friday’s lunch at a local brewery restaurant seems to have kept us going for almost a day. New spuds (boiled or fried), big dollops of tender meat and red cabbage in a sauce. Bloody good comfort food, and not a sauerkraut in sight. One amazing thing, the barman keeps a tab of how many drinks you’ve had by marking your beer mat, one pencil stroke for each beer. Why is it that Germans don’t go to the pub with a pencil and/or eraser? Kiwis would.
Christmas markets
The Christmas markets are spectacular and comprise wooden huts, decorated with bright lights and other bits and pieces, from which is sold everything from trinkets, decorations and toys to food – honey-glazed nuts, roast chestnuts, liquorices and aniseed and other sweets, bratwurst, and, of course, heavily spiced mulled wines (Gluywein it is called and could be a cross between glue and wine). The markets, it seems, are to be places to socialize in rather than buy too many presents and gifts as they just throng with people milling about, eating and drinking, as much as buying things.
The Christmas markets in Nuremberg are spectacular and one day we will consult our German friend about the meaning of many of the trinkets. Nutcracker characters and things with horizontal propeller blades on them!
The slideshow will give some idea of what they look like.
The Christmas markets are spectacular and comprise wooden huts, decorated with bright lights and other bits and pieces, from which is sold everything from trinkets, decorations and toys to food – honey-glazed nuts, roast chestnuts, liquorices and aniseed and other sweets, bratwurst, and, of course, heavily spiced mulled wines (Gluywein it is called and could be a cross between glue and wine). The markets, it seems, are to be places to socialize in rather than buy too many presents and gifts as they just throng with people milling about, eating and drinking, as much as buying things.
The Christmas markets in Nuremberg are spectacular and one day we will consult our German friend about the meaning of many of the trinkets. Nutcracker characters and things with horizontal propeller blades on them!
The slideshow will give some idea of what they look like.
Monday, December 22, 2008
We have a temporary break in transmission:
Although we know the Taliban got their turkeys
The internet cafe across the the road with wireless access has temporarily broken down ~ or at least the wireless has broken down. As much as I have tried to post a witty entry or two at an ordinary internet place, it has proved impossible. Normal transmission will resume as soon as possible we hope.
In the meantime, we are able to report that a truckload of turkeys destined as Christmas dinner for the British troops in Afghanistan has been blown up by the Taliban. This information comes courtesy of the BFBS (British Forces Broadcasting Services), that being the only English speaking radio we are able to pick up in Dusseldorf. There's almost nothing we don't know about Christmas day arrangements for the troops. Where's Radio Luxembourg when you need it?
Tomorrow we are off to Muncih and then Numberg (Nuremberg to you) to add to the 278 photos we currently have of Christmas markets.
Although we know the Taliban got their turkeys
The internet cafe across the the road with wireless access has temporarily broken down ~ or at least the wireless has broken down. As much as I have tried to post a witty entry or two at an ordinary internet place, it has proved impossible. Normal transmission will resume as soon as possible we hope.
In the meantime, we are able to report that a truckload of turkeys destined as Christmas dinner for the British troops in Afghanistan has been blown up by the Taliban. This information comes courtesy of the BFBS (British Forces Broadcasting Services), that being the only English speaking radio we are able to pick up in Dusseldorf. There's almost nothing we don't know about Christmas day arrangements for the troops. Where's Radio Luxembourg when you need it?
Tomorrow we are off to Muncih and then Numberg (Nuremberg to you) to add to the 278 photos we currently have of Christmas markets.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Thanks to you, a lesson in Dusseldorf historyI am informed by fan club member 421, one Kaelene Churton, formerly of Invercargill, that one Bogdan Kominowski was born to Polish parents in a Nazi concentration camp just outside Dusseldorf on April 22 1945. His father was killed, but the young Bogdan and his mother survived and emigrated to New Zealand in 1949, unfortunately suffering a worse fate, settling in Palmerston North.
According to Wikipedia and other reliable sources, fan club member 421 is absolutely right. We are in the same city that brought Bogdan Kominowski, later to become New Zealand’s Mr Mod, to this world.
Bogdan Kominowski? C’mon, this is your Opportunity to learn more.
http://www.sergent.com.au/leegrant.html
Photo: The city pissoir: One bit of German we were able to understand
Cultural difference 1: Monthly tram passes in Dusseldorf run for each calendar month rather than for a month from the date of issue. Thus, if we want concession tram travel for the twenty-something days before we head to London, we need to buy two one-month passes each. It might be cheaper to purchase the tram.
Cultural difference 2: Standing outside in the drizzling rain at the Christmas markets, eating bratwurst sausages on bread rolls, with mustard sauce. Beautiful, followed by 5 euro a bottle, red wine. Well maybe not too different.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
On being German
There’s at least one important thing we have forgotten. The phrase book, so now we are German’s who cannot speak the native tongue.
Within hours of arriving in Dusseldorf, we have been found the local supermarket (a hobby of ours when we travel is to master the art of supermarket shopping), the local Christmas markets, standing outside in the less-than-3 degree temperature sipping spiced, hot wine, dinner comprising a whole plate of pig (the name of which I cannot remember, but prepared a bit like lamb shanks without the distraction of vegetables) and an Irish pub, the ideal spot for Marty to succumb to those waves of tiredness that come at the end of a long flight.
Fleur’s apartment is on the main street, Heinrich Heine Allee (should it be Heinrich Himmler Allee or do we not mention the war?), right in the heart of town and almost above the police station which is of enormous comfort.
There’s at least one important thing we have forgotten. The phrase book, so now we are German’s who cannot speak the native tongue.
Within hours of arriving in Dusseldorf, we have been found the local supermarket (a hobby of ours when we travel is to master the art of supermarket shopping), the local Christmas markets, standing outside in the less-than-3 degree temperature sipping spiced, hot wine, dinner comprising a whole plate of pig (the name of which I cannot remember, but prepared a bit like lamb shanks without the distraction of vegetables) and an Irish pub, the ideal spot for Marty to succumb to those waves of tiredness that come at the end of a long flight.
Fleur’s apartment is on the main street, Heinrich Heine Allee (should it be Heinrich Himmler Allee or do we not mention the war?), right in the heart of town and almost above the police station which is of enormous comfort.
On Technology
It is amazing how much technology we travel with, a change of the times, and a real test of baggage weight limits. We carefully itemized the clothing we allowed ourselves to last at least six months on the road, but apparently not the technology. It’s a bit like being careful about how much you spend on groceries at the supermarket, but then not giving a moment’s hesitation to buying several cases of wine. It’s about priorities. Totted up, I think we have a computer, mouse, charger and Skype headset, pens drives, USB cables for every imaginable purpose, connecting cables, I Pod, chargers and speakers, two mobile phones, both the same make, but each having a different type of charger, clock radio and camera with cards and cables, power adaptors of every shape, size, creed and colour, a 4 plug multi-box (I’s no use having all this technology if you can’t use it), hairdryer, haircutter and personal groomer with an attachment for every possible beauty crisis, from rampant nostril growth to out-of-control pubic hairs. I think that’s the lot; and all of this for a low-key relaxed sort of holiday.
It is amazing how much technology we travel with, a change of the times, and a real test of baggage weight limits. We carefully itemized the clothing we allowed ourselves to last at least six months on the road, but apparently not the technology. It’s a bit like being careful about how much you spend on groceries at the supermarket, but then not giving a moment’s hesitation to buying several cases of wine. It’s about priorities. Totted up, I think we have a computer, mouse, charger and Skype headset, pens drives, USB cables for every imaginable purpose, connecting cables, I Pod, chargers and speakers, two mobile phones, both the same make, but each having a different type of charger, clock radio and camera with cards and cables, power adaptors of every shape, size, creed and colour, a 4 plug multi-box (I’s no use having all this technology if you can’t use it), hairdryer, haircutter and personal groomer with an attachment for every possible beauty crisis, from rampant nostril growth to out-of-control pubic hairs. I think that’s the lot; and all of this for a low-key relaxed sort of holiday.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
The romantic illusion of travel
There is something illusory about international travelling, while the mind conjures romantic images of the Arabian nights, the Orient Express, Raffles Hotel, Paris and host of other exquisite sights and experiences. But of course, the reality is somewhat different; endless hours waiting at airports, hours and hours of cramped flying and bastards in the seats directly in front of you who flog all the cabin bag space and then mount surprise attacks by unexpectedly reclining their seat back, to the full extent, without warning, just as you are about to drink a hot cup of tea. And toilets where men (me excepted) show a complete lack of finesse when it comes to aim. The bugger is that I have to put my shoes on every time I want to go to the toilet.
So, the journey has begun. From Christchurch to Sydney, but not before Kaelene was searched (if I was one to exaggerate, I would say a full cavity search) by customs who extracted her three prized tins of reduced cream, which, until then, had been destined to become the core ingredient of dip to accompany the salt and vinegar chips for Fleur and Jade. She, at least, still has the Maggi onion soup mix if we run out of food on Christmas Day.
A 14 hour and 20 minutes leg from Sydney to Dubai gives the real truth of travelling. Cramped, tired, bored, sleep deprived and force-fed airline food. The Emirates planes seem to have been reconfigured to give much less leg room; tall people beware. And they seem more spartan with the booze. We each wisely brought inflatable sleeping pillows, Kaelene’s from Kathmandu, mine from the $2 shop. Hers worked perfectly, mine exploded immediately on use, almost taking out a cabin attendant and nearly starting an international terror alert. Between that and the cramped space I doubt that sleep found me.
The brutal reality of long haul flying, like pain and hangovers, cannot be successfully recreated in the mind. It diminishes over time only to leave us going back for more. At least the trip from Dubai to Sydney next April will be on a new Airbus 380, the new two-story one.
The new terminal at Dubai airport, which opened just last month, is clearly inadequate. A 40 minute queue to get through the transit security tests the patience, as does having to take off belts and shoes to get through the metal detector. Even at 7.00am, the departure lounges were overcrowded, to the point of queues even for the men’s toilets.
Impressive though, the African women making their way through the airport crowd to departure gates with luggage balanced on their heads, no hands. I’m going to teach Kaelene how to do that.
Currently en-route to Dusseldorf (another 7 hours), we are flying over a very clear southern Iran, along the northern side of the Persian Gulf. I’ve been studying the downward camera view of the in-house entertainment screen, only to realize that if you look out the window, the view is altogether much better. Funny that. We could be flying over the South Island, only the green patchwork of the Canterbury plains replaced by the brown patchwork of the land somewhere to the South East of Shiraz. (Lots of snow below us now as we fly over northern Iran).
By the time we get to Dusseldorf it will be something in the vicinity of 30 hours travel since we left Chch on Monday evening. Time for the jet lag to set in and kill off any chance of a decent kip.
There is something illusory about international travelling, while the mind conjures romantic images of the Arabian nights, the Orient Express, Raffles Hotel, Paris and host of other exquisite sights and experiences. But of course, the reality is somewhat different; endless hours waiting at airports, hours and hours of cramped flying and bastards in the seats directly in front of you who flog all the cabin bag space and then mount surprise attacks by unexpectedly reclining their seat back, to the full extent, without warning, just as you are about to drink a hot cup of tea. And toilets where men (me excepted) show a complete lack of finesse when it comes to aim. The bugger is that I have to put my shoes on every time I want to go to the toilet.
So, the journey has begun. From Christchurch to Sydney, but not before Kaelene was searched (if I was one to exaggerate, I would say a full cavity search) by customs who extracted her three prized tins of reduced cream, which, until then, had been destined to become the core ingredient of dip to accompany the salt and vinegar chips for Fleur and Jade. She, at least, still has the Maggi onion soup mix if we run out of food on Christmas Day.
A 14 hour and 20 minutes leg from Sydney to Dubai gives the real truth of travelling. Cramped, tired, bored, sleep deprived and force-fed airline food. The Emirates planes seem to have been reconfigured to give much less leg room; tall people beware. And they seem more spartan with the booze. We each wisely brought inflatable sleeping pillows, Kaelene’s from Kathmandu, mine from the $2 shop. Hers worked perfectly, mine exploded immediately on use, almost taking out a cabin attendant and nearly starting an international terror alert. Between that and the cramped space I doubt that sleep found me.
The brutal reality of long haul flying, like pain and hangovers, cannot be successfully recreated in the mind. It diminishes over time only to leave us going back for more. At least the trip from Dubai to Sydney next April will be on a new Airbus 380, the new two-story one.
The new terminal at Dubai airport, which opened just last month, is clearly inadequate. A 40 minute queue to get through the transit security tests the patience, as does having to take off belts and shoes to get through the metal detector. Even at 7.00am, the departure lounges were overcrowded, to the point of queues even for the men’s toilets.
Impressive though, the African women making their way through the airport crowd to departure gates with luggage balanced on their heads, no hands. I’m going to teach Kaelene how to do that.
Currently en-route to Dusseldorf (another 7 hours), we are flying over a very clear southern Iran, along the northern side of the Persian Gulf. I’ve been studying the downward camera view of the in-house entertainment screen, only to realize that if you look out the window, the view is altogether much better. Funny that. We could be flying over the South Island, only the green patchwork of the Canterbury plains replaced by the brown patchwork of the land somewhere to the South East of Shiraz. (Lots of snow below us now as we fly over northern Iran).
By the time we get to Dusseldorf it will be something in the vicinity of 30 hours travel since we left Chch on Monday evening. Time for the jet lag to set in and kill off any chance of a decent kip.
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