Coming Home

I was promised beautiful weather.

Outside it is raining and has been for some time.  The headline on the front page of today’s Herald says, “Brace Yourself!” over a picture of storm clouds bearing down on the country.  Three days ago, as I drove from Aix to Nice across the bottom of Provence in full winter, the sky was blue and the temperature hit 18 degrees.

I think I might have been sold a pup weatherwise, although it is hot and sticky.

Perhaps my mood is influenced by jet lag.  Because I can sleep on planes, I am seldom too badly inconvenienced by the bane of long distance travel.  However, on this occasion I am beaten.  We left Aix at 9 am on New Years Eve – that is 9 pm on the same day (Sunday) in NZ.  We arrived in Auckland at 4.35 am on 3 January (Wednesday).  That means we spent 65 hours and 35 minutes travelling to NZ.  I have not slept more than 3 hours since arriving and it is now 4.30 pm on Thursday.  Today I have been to the beauty clinic, taken my mother lunch, and bought a dress.  Yesterday I unpacked, did washing, went grocery shopping, and cooked dinner for my daughter and son-in-law.  At this point I am not sure I am making good decisions.

Ok, let’s chart what happened.  We get up early, hand apartment over to the wonderful Rita, and set off.  Not to Nice, where we have a plane to catch, but north of town to get the perfect photographic view point of Sainte Victoria.  The man in the Tourism Office has given us the actual spot that Cézanne and all the other painters have used to capture this view.  Except that it is now in the middle of the suburbs, and there is nowhere to park on the steep, narrow and winding road.  So Johan parks anyway, and leaves me in the car while he sprints up hill to take photos.  Of course the view is no longer visible, the shot is impossible, and we are now on the wrong side of town for trip to Nice.  Moving on …

The drive to Nice Côte d’Azur Airport is unremarkable, and we get there in plenty of time.  Unfortunately the car lease depot is shut and the entry gate locked.  I ring the office number.  They are only open Monday to Friday 8 – 6, or by appointment.  It is Sunday.  I do not have an appointment (somehow after 32 hour trip 3 months previously I had missed this crucial information when picking up car).   The machine does not offer an option to leave a message.  I ring the international help number, wait five minutes on hold, only to be told, “someone will ring me back”.  Twenty minutes later, still sitting parked illegally  on an airport road – illegal parking is a theme this last two weeks -, ‘someone’ does ring me back.  I explain the situation again.  They have no solution to offer. The only number they have is the same one that is closed because it is Sunday.  The problem is ours to solve.

So solve it we do.  After trying to pursuade a couple of the car rental places to take temporary control, we simply ditch the car.  A three month old Peugot 308 is left sitting in a carpark beside the car rental return depot (note this is NOT a rental car) with two sets of keys and ownership papers in the glove box.  We have essentially ditched the car in favour of making our check-in on time.

Nice Côte d’Azur Airport is a pig of a place.  It has two widely separated terminals with numerous parking buildings in between and, at present, road works on the internal roads.  There is a free bus.  You have to walk a considerable distance, largely unsigned-posted, to catch it.  Then it will drop you about 100 metres from the entrance to Terminal 1.  With two large and two small suitcases, a camera bag, a back pack, and a very heavy overfull satchel/handbag.  None of this might have mattered much if my synapses were not already overloaded from 4,000 kms of road travel across four different countries in the space of the previous 5 days, and the prospect of ending my self-imposed exile.

So I was already a bit frazzled when, as it always does, my artificial knee set off the border control scanner.  It did not help that by this time I was dying to go to the toilet. Of course I anticipate the alarm, and as I walk through the machine I am already pointing to my knee and suggesting this is the problem.  Sometimes, not often, this is the end of the matter.  Not this time.  I had to go back through, take off my cardigan and shoes, and try again.  Then I got the good old fashioned pat down – not the once over lightly, but the all enveloping examination of all surfaces and crevices.  Very thorough.  Back through the machine.  Remove all jewellery – three rings, two bracelets (including the plastic one), earrings.  I still set off the alarm.  By this point I am snarling and uncooperative.  Finally they get out the hand scanner, survey my body all over again, and decide that it is indeed my knee and I can go.  Mini melt-down on my part as I fling my scattered belongings together.  Johan pretends he is not with my by engaging in friendly banter with the guard.

One toilet stop and a little cool-down period later,  we proceed to the gate, where we make ourselves comfortable.  Not for long.  There is an announcement in French.  I think I hear that our plane will be delayed for at least an hour.  I pretend they are talking about the other Qatar flight, due to depart for Istanbul.  Then they repeat in English, and of course it is our flight.  Not so bad.  We have a 2 hour 30 minute interval to catch our connecting flight in Doha.

Four and half hours later and we know this is not going to happen.  Furthermore, everyone else on the flight is going to miss a connection.  No-one actually goes to Doha, they just pass through it as the Qatar Airlines hub.

No information is available.  The fight may or may not leave sometime this evening (remember it is New Years Eve).  Groups of French people confer loudly and exchange phone numbers and emails of the places they can lodge complaints and demand justice.  French people tend to be big on justice.  The foreign travellers like ourselves, who have access to the Priority Pass Lounge, try to act less concerned.  I imagine I have a look of philosophical resignation on my face, but apparently not.  Johan disappears for a while and reappears with the gift of an Occitane scented candle that he hopes will make me feel better.  And it does, for a while.

Just when it looks like the Priority Pass Lounge will close for the night and kick us out, they announce boarding is commencing.  We are all jammed on board and the doors closed in super-quick time, but then sit another 30 minutes before trundling out to the runway.  At 12 midnight French time a small group of passengers, including me, burst into rounds of “Bonne Année, Happy New Year”, and there is much kissing.

So.  We arrive in Doha at 3.30 am.  There is ground crew waiting to sort things out for everyone.  We have to wait until 2.50 am the following morning for our new flight, so we get a hotel room and transfer.  This is actually pretty efficient.  It is only 5.45 am when we actually get to the hotel.  I have no toiletries or makeup, but no worries – I will shower and sleep, eat and go.

I manage one hours sleep, Johan maybe two.  We watch CNN for a while, shower again, dress and go have breakfast/lunch in the hotel restaurant.  It consumes 4/5 of our meal vouchers, which are supposed to provide breakfast, lunch and dinner.

What to do next?  Watch some more CNN, get bored, decide to visit the Souq.  It is more like 15 minutes by taxi than the 5 minutes stated on the hotel brochure, but it is at least ‘outside’ and a little interesting.  The clothes are bizarre; the jewellery hideous and over-worked; the goods largely rustic.  Then we find the pets section.  There are thousands of birds of all kinds for sale, and we are uncomfortable at the overcrowding, while fascinated by the varieties.  Then we find the section with puppies and cats (full grown, not kittens) and we are even more uncomfortable.  When we see a puppy extracted from a cage by being grabbed and lifted by one leg we are definitely not happy.  Time to leave.

Finally it was a light meal (which we had to pay for), another shower, and off to Hamas Airport again through the dark, although the city lights up like a theme park at night.  After many more hours in yet another Priority Pass Lounge we finally board for Auckland.  I sleep, watch a couple of episodes of Blue Planet II, about 10 Ted Talks, and eat all three meals plus snack box the airline supply.  The plane is 100% full, except in Business Class, which is tantalisingly just the next row ahead of us behind closed curtains.  Johan does not sleep at all.  He does Suduko and watches back to back movies.  Believe me when I say that 16+ hours in economy class is not fun, even when you have a bulk-head row to stretch your legs.

I was home before 7 am on Wednesday morning, only 24 hours later than expected.  My summer clothes were – and still are – packed away in storage for my tenants convenience.  The furniture was not where I left it.  I am sure I used to have a coffee machine, but the kitchen bench is empty.  My garden is dried up and dead.  I am tired and smelly – I was briefly apprehended by the customs dog at Auckland Airport – and I have nothing to wear.

A day and a half later I am not much better.  Tiredness does not bring sleep.  There are unopened clothing boxes in the lounge, I still don’t know where the coffee machine is, and the weather is just getting worse and worse.

BUT …

I have had a wonderful time, and I am home.  So I am not complaining really.