Day 1 (22 August): Brisbane Airport, Brisbane to Sydney, Sydney to Osaka, Osaka to Kyoto.
An early riser, I had no troubles at all getting up and packing and readying myself for a full 18 hours of almost constant traveling. Much to Satomi’s angst, I only ever pack on the day I leave – a sort of ritual. My theory is that if there’s something I leave behind, I really don’t need it. So, the packing done, the amenities utilized and the passport, wallet and tickets in the pocket, it was off to the great sky adventure.
Beforehand, I had asked a lot of questions of seasoned international travelers I know in order to prepare myself for my first trip. Thinking I had everything sorted, I set off with confidence only to be met by the first obstacle – a traffic jam. No sweat, we’d allowed ourselves a little bit of buffer time, but it was eating into my precious gift buying schedule at the duty free shops. With 15 minutes to spare before check in closed, we arrived at the airport and the reality set it. And the reality repeated itself numerous times throughout the day – international travel is just about testing ones’ patience in slow-moving queues. No one told me about this! And, as anyone knows, I am not the most patient cookie in the cookie jar, so it was certainly a test. The check in queue was not to be the longest of the day, it turned out, but it was the most frustrating. And it was here that I resolved to seriously consider upgrading my well worn army duffel bag to a swish case with wheels. Stooping over constantly to pick up your bag only to set it down about 50cm further along the line was indeed tedious.
With check-in done, I power-shopped for a full 20 minutes (buying the essentials – another book, a magazine and some dodgy presents to give as omiyage in Japan), before joining yet another queue to get through immigration. This one was one of the most frustrating of the day – a snaking line about 10 deep, in a small, cramped and stuffy room. No conversation, no eye contact and certainly no line cutting. All of this, just for some surly looking matron to take a peek at my passport picture, then an almost derogatory sneer at my face to ensure the both matched. And I was through. A quick sit down was in order, before I was called to join the next queue to get on the plane. Being a round trip (Osaka-Brisbane-Sydney), the plane was already half full with the tourists heading for a holiday in Sydney. With an older Japanese lady sitting next to me, it was no major drama. She kept to herself and politely fell asleep in a tight ball facing away from me. And before I know it, we’re in the air and my trip has begun.
With nowhere near enough time to settle into the joys of plane travel, the descent starts and we hit the tarmac in Sydney. Even though it was the exact same plane, and the exact same seat for the next leg of the trip, Jetstar insisted everyone got off to go back through customs again. 2 more queues. The entire hour-long stopover in Sydney was spent in queues! I know it wasn’t their fault, but it just made me hate Sydney even more.
Getting back on the plane, I was the first on, and watched eagerly for the passenger destined to share the next 9 hours in my personal space. As the pilot called for the cabin crew to arm and cross-check the doors, the seat beside me remained vacant. I was a little disappointed that I wasn’t going to have a travel buddy, but that was until I discovered that the arm-rest raised up, giving me a full double seat to stretch out. The trip was relatively uneventful, and despite my best efforts with Scotland’s finest brew, I was unable to disgrace myself in the air Pete Townshend-style.
Descending to Kansai, the night was exploding all around as the heavens decided now was a good time for a bit of instability and lightening. “I can handle a few bumps,” I thought to myself, until one helluva splash of light outside my window, a stomach churning drop and witnessing the cabin crew almost running to the safety of their jump seats, had me leaving fingernail marks in the arm rests.
We smacked the tarmac hard and taxied for an eternity before the doors opened and I was greeted by what naturally accompanies the storm clouds outside – oppressive humidity. I mean, not just Brisbane humidity, but the type of humidity that you get in the wet tropics. The humidity that usually sees you stripped off to the waist, with wet towel wrapped around your forehead. It was certainly not the type of humidity that goes well with slacks, a t-shirt, an over shirt and boots. So, before I’d even reached the relative safety of the immigration queue, I was already searching for the nearest shower to strip off and cool my bones. But it was not to be, as I was faced with the queues to end all queues, as about 3 international flights arriving within the space of 5 minutes, saw the Kansai arrivals hall resemble a busy subway station at peak hour. And it was here that I made the fatal queuing error – I succumbed to queue envy. After arriving in the immigration line towards the front of my group of passengers, I jumped between what I perceived to be the fastest moving queues… and, yes, ended up being one of the last to be processed. But I got through the first check point without so much as even a cursory grunt or glance by the immaculately uniformed official. I headed downstairs, collected my familiar army duffel and was pleasantly surprised to see it still in one piece. Either the Japanese sniffer dogs were resting, or were put off by the other pungent odours that have accumulated in that bag during the past 15 years of hard traveling, to not notice that the last time I used it, it housed a small amount of a substance which would be enough to get me deported immediately. After declaring nothing, I wandered through the huge electronic doors and into the waiting arms of Satomi.
For 7 months we had been dreaming of this moment. I had never experienced it before: falling into the arms of your lover after being apart for some time. And while the hug was beautiful and sweet, it was tempered by the fact that public displays of affection are kind of frowned upon in Japan, as well as my own insecurities about my now dripping with sweat body. After a quick introduction with Rie, Satomi’s friend who had accompanied her to the airport, we set off for the ticket office to get the train to Kyoto. Walking into the office was the first, and probably only, real cultural shock moment of the trip. I had sort of “zoned out” to the sound of Japanese announcements and writing during the flight, so the sights and sounds of real life Japan didn’t really affect me. It was the smell inside the ticket office which struck me as the most cultural different between the two countries. It was a smell of stale, thousand-body sweat, mixed with the smell of stale, thousand-cigarette butts. For all its progress and development, Japan is still stuck in a time-warp (by our standards) of allowing smoking in almost every building and crevice in every part of the land. Even as a smoker, I am still finding it confronting to have someone smoke around me while dining (although, it hasn’t stopped me lighting up at the end of a meal!); and smoking on trains was to play a key part of one of the most horrendous travel experiences of my life to date (more to come on that later).
So we got out tickets, and headed for the train for the hour and a bit ride to Kyoto. The street lights whizzing by meant nothing to me, as I couldn’t stop touching and hugging and kissing the beautiful being who was sitting beside me. Before long, we arrived at Kyoto Station, and the short walk through the tiny little streets to the tiniest little hotel room. It was seriously small, with not even enough room to walk normally around the double bed. But I didn’t care, as I settled into the covers and wrapped my girl tightly around my body and said good-bye to the beginning day of a truly special time.
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