I’ve discovered in recent months that when people realise
I’m Australian the inevitable response is that they’d love to visit Oz but it’s
too far to travel. After all who’d want to spend 24 hours sitting on a plane?
My stock standard quip, while trying to supress an eye roll has become
‘well why do you think we all travel for such long periods of time?’ (Another
observation they generally make).
But today I’ll swallow my pride and admit it; all those
people I mentally rolled my eyes at in the past are right.
In the past month The Boy and I packed our bags and prepared to jet
off home for the wedding of the Bestie and my Bro, but due to obligations here in
Paris our trip was to be a flying one – a grand total of 10 days including our
travel time. When I’d booked the tickets months earlier I’d arrogantly bragged to myself
that we’d both done this trip a few times already, it’d be easy peasy, a cinch,
there was absolutely nothing to worry about.
Clearly it hadn’t clicked in my head that in the space of a
week I’d be spending a whopping 52 hours sitting on my ass reading or watching
movie after movie while being force fed plane food – and I challenge anyone not
to struggle with that. Not to mention that waiting for me on both ends was a crippling case of jet lag.
But still we did it and excitedly planned out our Oz days while sitting on the bus to the airport and riding through Paris on a sunlit afternoon – beach, family, beach, friends, beach BBQ, beach and then a
wedding to top it off. And if we had some time in between, we’d spend some time
at the beach.
By the first stopover in Dubai a mere 14 hours into the first plane trip we were
already bored. By the second surprise stopover in Singapore hours later we were like robots
muttering ‘beach, beach’ over and over to ourselves as we passed through
customs yet again.
By the time we landed in Autumnal Brisbane at 1am we were delusional.
Greeted by The Parents dressed in cardigans and jackets The Boy and I were stripping off layers and dancing around outside exclaiming about how warm it was (to be fair we had come
from an early European spring so it probably was).
Waking a mere four hours later to a steamy morning it dawned on me, the last two times I’d done this trip I’d
been so excited about what lay at the other end that I’d somehow blocked out
the torture of the flight, to the point I’d willingly undergone it again
numerous times, and I was left with only vague recollections of struggling to stay awake
in the afternoons and bouncing around in the pre-dawn light.
But this was the important thing for me. As sappy as it sounds the crazed non-sleeping state of early mornings and the zombie-like afternoons were still worth it when I was sitting around a dinner table full of lovelies, having an early morning cuppa with The Parents after a morning walk, an afternoon swim at the beach or, best of all, watching The Bestie and a Bro get married.
And Oz was still Oz. Paris might be able to boast thousands of years of European history and stunning architecture but Oz is lush and has a natural beauty that can't be rivalled.
But it was with my tail firmly between my legs and more than a little dread at the end of the week I returned to the airport for that flight back to the land of wine and cheese with weeks of jet lag- or even double jet lag if that's possible - ahead of me again.
So the next time I have someone tell me that stock standard phrase of they'd love to visit but it's just too far to get to Oz I'll suppress that eye roll and simply smile and say "yes it is, but do you know at the other end there is a beach?"
Oh, and these lovelies...
