Sea-dogs and games of cat and mouse

Venice, Day 2, Part 2:  Rialto bridge, San Marco's square and the Basilica

Despite our long and arduous day battling the dragon Smaug (there's one for fans of The Hobbit - ie, the twin demons of heat and greed), we figured it would be remiss of us and a failure in our duty as tourists if we did not cross over the Rialto and stroll through San Marco's piazza.

The Rialto is the obvious first choice given we need to cross the Grand Canal anyway so we follow the many signs that point in the general direction to Venice's most famous bridge.  Interesting side note: there are only three old bridges and one, controversially modern, new bridge spanning the Grand Canal given that traffic on the canal was essentially a water freeway where business was traditionally only along the length not across the width of the canal.

As we weave our way through the narrow streets, we know we are nearing the Rialto by the heavy press of countless others who are likewise making their way there.  At last a narrow, unassuming street empties us out into the still-brilliant sunshine and the base of the wide and worn marble steps that lead up and over the Rialto.

It's difficult to form a first impression of this famous landmark (or is that watermark?) due to the incredible number of people milling about like ants on a sticky bun.  What does stand out is the impressive size of the bridge; not only is it wide, it's deceptively high as well.

We start up the steps and make our way toward the apex hoping for some spectacular views of the Grand Canal on either side.  The centre of the bridge is occupied by a colonnade of what were originally shops leading up from the base of the steps either side up to a central portico.  Unfortunately, the arched entrances are currently boarded up with graffiti-covered plywood panels; whether for renovations or otherwise is unclear to us.  The only way across the bridge is via two, relatively narrow and congested 'lanes' running along the outer wall.  We slowly make our way through the bustle and find a small space to stand at the hand-rail which still shows the marks of the stone-mason's hammer on the outermost edge while the inner side is polished smooth from the countless hands before us that have leant there looking out over the Cannalesso.

It may be because of the anticipation or because of the tiring trials of the day that we are somewhat disappointed by the views.  The Rialto unquestionably affords you a good vantage point from which to appreciate the size of the Grand Canal but unfortunately it doesn't offer much in the way of spectacular grandeur that we expected.  From here, you can see the restaurants that line one bank of the canal flanked by an admittedly pretty mooring spot at which a handful of the city's gondolas and water-taxis currently bob upon the tide.

View from the Rialto bridge

It's not long before we leave our crowded perch to the punters ever searching for that perfect photo position jostling behind us and complete our crossing to the other side.  As we step off the Ponte Rialto, I notice a little cobbled path that curves around the base of the bridge to a small landing that is surprisingly (and relievingly) free of the madding crowds above.  From here, we actually get a better view of the 15th century carvings adorning the bridge itself as well as the water-craft passing beneath its high, arched underside as they ferry endless passengers to and fro.  A blue fishing boat, old in style but immaculate in finish, flicks up white spray as it whizzes by, charmingly scruffy mutt standing confidently at the prow.  Further upstream, a flotilla of gondolas slowly fan out across the width of the canal; the gondoliers calmly and expertly manoeuvering out of the path of an oncoming water bus.  If you visit the Rialto, I highly recommend you walk the few steps to this little landing - you'll appreciate the immensity of the architecture and sense the heartbeat of the canal at water level better than you ever would from up on the bridge itself.

View from below the Rialto

I'd also recommend you walk a bit further along the Grand Canal to the Ponte dell'Accademia.  While it's not to the same impressive scale nor fame of the Rialto, this timber and steel bridge does provide some spectacular views of the southern stretches of the canal and the grand palaces and other buildings that rise up out of the green water.

Views from the Ponte dell'Accademia

Moving on from the Rialto, we continue to follow the maze of streets toward San Marco's piazza.  Another interesting fact:  San Marco's is one of the very few piazzas named as such in Venice - most other 'squares' are actually known as campi (fields).  Perhaps this is why the locals refer to San Marco's piazza as simply "la piazza".  Like the Rialto, the first thing that strikes you when you enter the piazza is the scale of it and the buildings surrounding it on all four sides.  The entire northern side of the square is dominated by the columnated Procuratie Vecchie, the former homes and offices of the Procurators of the Republic of Venice.

At the shorter eastern end lies the famous Basilica, bedecked in gold and polychrome marble and blue paint made from ground lapis lazuli, still vivid after centuries of exposure to the elements.  It's a beautiful building with an interesting history having been continually added to over the years, including statues, friezes and other adornments brought back from Constantinople and the Orient by victorious Roman soldiers.  Slightly opposite the church is the campanile (bell tower) which completely dominates the piazza, rising high above the square, taller even than the highest golden spire on the church itself.

The square is, as you would expect, filled with people:  tourists, business people, and  street hawkers flinging gaudy, luminescent toys high into the air to attract tourists or trying to sell you handfulls of grain to feed the already overfed pigeons.  You'll also see the stylishly-uniformed carabinieri (police) moving through the crowds.  After a while of watching the move and sway of the crowd, we observed an interesting game of cat and mouse played out by the carabinieri and the street hawkers.  The carabinieri patrol the square, while the hawkers, keenly aware of their presence, surreptitiously move to other areas of the square if they get too close.  Once the carabinieri move on, the hawkers once again take up their original spots, only for the entire process to begin again.

As evening begins to set in, the sky turning a darker shade of blue to match that on the church, I'm slightly disappointed that this square doesn't affect me in the way that I thought it would.  Admittedly, we didn't get a chance to enter the church or climb to the top of the impressive bell tower, but I just can't help but feel that I'm missing something.

Moving through the square toward the Basilica, the crowd inevitably presses closer around us so we decide to move into the smaller square off to the southern corner away from the church.  Wikipedia tells me that this is the Piazzetta dei San Marco and, although much smaller than the main piazza, I find this space much more attractive.  Perhaps it's because the western side of the piazzetta opens onto the lagoon easing the eyes and allowing a welcome breeze to sweep across the square, cooling sweaty brows and reinvigorating our crowd-weary minds.

View across the lagoon from Piazzetta dei San Marco

Turning away from San Marco's square, we pass between the two granite columns topped by the bronze symbols of Venice at the edge of the piazzetta.  The Venetian sky turns a gorgeous inky-blue and the first stars begin to sparkle in the water's softly lapping surface as we walk along the banks of the lagoon towards home.

To the victor go the spoils!

Croissants, churches and cash-machines

8.30am
Dining Room, Ca' Zanardi

Our first Venetian morning, we awake early to the sounds of boats being loaded with produce in the canal beneath our window.  Freshly showered, we make our way downstairs for breakfast.  We're cheerily greeted by Andrea who explains that the rain during the night has made the terrace too wet to sit for breakfast.  Apologising, he offers us a table in the huge dining room which is sumptuous even if its beauty is slightly faded and there's a spot or two of bodgy repair work.  Like the adjoining ballroom, baroque plasterwork is everywhere, a gorgeous chandelier, frescos on the walls and ceilings, and the eye can't help but constantly fall upon little reminders of how this room must have looked in its hey-day: candlelight glinting from the gilded wall sconces and sparkling in the crystal pendants hanging from the chandelier and glasses on the tables, the intricate tiled floor, even the wrought iron grilles over the wall-vents show that the flowers and delicate swirls once wore the colours of spring rather than the dull ivory that they appear to be at first glance.

The dining room at Ca' Zanardi
(Image courtesy tripadvisor)

We sit down to a continental breakfast of freshly baked croissants and real Italian coffee made by Andrea, who suggests a number of places to visit, circling them on our map.  He says that, of course, we must visit the Piazza San Marco and the Basilica  that it is most famous for (besides the pidgeons) but, without a hint of irony, makes a point that the basilica is not actually Venetian - or even Italian! - given that it is Byzantine in design and adornment.  He's not entirely correct (thanks Wikipedia!) but it's another reminder - like the sign at the airport criticising the 'Roman' government - of just how parochial Italians are of their own regions, often referring to themselves as Venetian, or Roman, etc rather than Italian.

Sufficiently stuffed and caffiened, we gather up our map (with recommended spots circled by Andrea) and make our way out into the morning sunshine ready to explore.  Even at this hour, it's clear that it's going to be a warm day and the early humidity quickly brings a sheen to our skin which was until recently hiding from the Adelaide winter wind and rain.  Our good friend, Linda, is joining us tomorrow - it really is quite exciting to make plans that end in "see you in Venice!" - so we decide to do the churches and galleries today.

We pop into a small (by Italian standards) church, Santa Maria dei Miracoli, which, depite seeming relatively modest from outside, is a riot of marble and mahogany within.  While still jam-packed full of all the usual christian iconography you'd expect, this little church has a 'human-ness' to it that the grander and gaudier monoliths usually lack.  It actually feels the way that I think it should - that is, like it was built for people to go about their quiet prayers rather than as an audacious (and frankly, rather sickening) flaunting of the church's obscene wealth.

The interior of Santa Maria dei Miracoli
(Image courtesy Wikipedia under creative commons license)

Having said that, this is no dusty pauper's hovel.  Marvelling at the incredible detail and craftmanship in every single square-foot, I notice there are tombs on the floor dating back to the 15th and 16th centuries and I'm once again struck by the history of this country.  Just to put that in perspective, that's the approximate period of the Rennaissance which gave us Michelangelo and da Vinci, Botticelli and Boccacio, the Basilica of St Peter's, and countless others.  It never ceases to affect me.

Stepping out of the cool dimness of the church into the thick heat of the midday sun, sweat instantly prickles our skin and we seek out refreshment from one of the many street stalls that, by their increasing frequency, tell us we're not far from the Rialto.  Downing a small peach and white wine fizzy drink, we decide to postpone our visit to one of the most famous bridges in Italy until tomorrow.  Checking our map, we decide to follow the Grand Canal (Cannalasso to the locals) around the lower half of its distinctive s-bend curves to the Museo di Ca' Rezzonico, an 18th century palace which now houses one of the most important art collections in all of Venice.

After three quarters of an hour walking in the heat, we are happy to finally enter the cool shade of the museum's ticketing office.  We ask for two tickets as I hand over my Visa debit card.

Traveller's tip #1:  don't rely on eftpos for anything overseas.

As the girl behind the counter shakes her head at us and hands back my card, Holly checks her bag for her card.  Oh oh, we've left it back at the room.

Traveller's tip #2:  if you ignore tip #1, at least have a second card with you connected to different account.

I check my wallet hoping that we've got enough cash.  Hmmm, it seems that the cost of the fizzy peach drink we had earlier is the only difference between having enough cash to cover the entry price and a weary trek out back into the heat to find an ATM.

Traveller's tip #3:  make sure you have sufficient cash for the day's activities before setting out.

Backtracking to the nearest piazza, we ask a waitress at one of the cafés for directions to the nearest ATM.  She doesn't say anything but distractedly waves her hand vaguely towards the square which, if I've understood her correctly, seems to indicate that the ATM is thankfully just on the other side of the square we're in.  After another five or so minutes fruitlessly searching, I ask another, not-so-busy, waiter for directions.  He indicates a glass door several metres away and we're only a few steps from the air-conditioned embrace of the vestibule of the holy cash machine.

Relief at finally finding the ATM is short-lived however when the truculent machine refuses to provide the sole bounty it was created for.  It doesn't even bother with trying to confuse us with its perfect Italian, rather it leaves no room for confusion or argument and states in the clearest English, "INSUFFICIENT FUNDS!"  Despite the air-conditioning, the stinging sweat of frustration instantly pebbles both our foreheads.

Resigned to a long and hot walk home, we leave the self-satisfied ATM on weary legs.  We don't get far before, like Hansel and Gretel finding the Gingerbread cottage in the woods, we serendipitously come upon an internet café and, like Gretel, it's Holly who suggests we follow the breadcrumbs inside.  This chance find lifts our spirits and I surprise myself as I ask in suddenly faultless Italian if we could purchase 15 minutes of internet time.  The lanky, bearded chap behind the counter gestures at the first computer and I quickly log-in to my online banking account.  Transfer completed, we leave with a spring in our step and don't feel the heat outside quite so keenly anymore.

We make it back to the ticket office where I confidently hand over my card to the same girl behind the thick glass.  My smile soon slides off my face as she looks up apologetically, again shaking her head.  No, wait!  Something must be wrong.  I ask her to try the card again.  She tries and then silently slides it back to me under the glass and I know there's no point trying again.  The heat returns with a vengeance.

Feeling even worse than before, we again leave the museum having got no farther than the ticket booth in the entrance way.  Holly suggests we make one final, hopeful attack upon the ATM before writing-off the rest of the day.  Not wanting to give in to defeat, I reluctantly agree and we trepidly retrace our steps to the same smug machine.

How it felt to battle the heat and the ATM

It seems to sneer at me as I insert my card and I'm sure I hear it snigger as I enter my PIN.  In seemingly mocking tones, it asks how much I would like to withdraw.  I'm not a superstitious person but with fingers crossed, I boldly instruct it to give me 120 euros hoping that my doubt and fear is not obvious to the vile creature.  Oh wonder of wonders!  All glory be to internet banking, I have bested the ATM-beast!  Crestfallen, it does as instructed and dispenses the cash.  I have defeated the miserly dragon and am now the undisputed master of wallet and coin!

Sweet victory brings relief and a refreshing breeze to our uncreased brows as I justly snatch our reward from the maw of the black-hearted monster.  We stride back to the museum knowing that nothing can thwart our entry now that we brandish the currency of entry proudly in our fists.  Our fiscal prowess now acknowledged, tickets are exchanged for cash and we check our bags at the cloak room as we finally enter the museum.

We spend the next two or three hours moving from fresco-adorned room to gilt-and-gem-encrusted room, over three sprawling floors.  The palace itself is amazing both for its contents and its views over the Grand Canal which is unsurprising given that the son of the household was later elected Pope Clement XIII.  The first two floors are remarkable for the richness of the statues, paintings and furniture right down to an entire, fully-furnished in near-original condition, the lady of the palace's private bedchamber, complete with painted wooden wall-panels, inlaid floor and hidden dressing-room.  A six-foot glass cabinet next to the bed proudly displays the silver and ivory toiletry contents of the lady's wedding chest.  The entire third floor is given over to paintings by prominent Venetian and Italian artists of the 18th century, the number of which would fill a large part of the entire Adelaide Art Gallery.

One small part of Ca' Rezzonico
(Image courtesy venicewithaguide)

After a long day in the field, we leave the museum-palace and begin our walk home under twilight skies.  Our path takes us right between the Rialto and San Marco's so we decide to see what all the fuss is about, which I'll describe in the next post.

We finally find ourselves back in the familiar and comforting square of our neighbourhood where we go to dinner at the restaurant recommended to us by Andrea.  Tony, the owner of Trattoria Storica, shows us to a table where we order a bottle of prosecco and risotto marinara for two.  The light prosecco is a perfect compliment to the risotto which is full of fresh, local seafood and perhaps the best we've ever had.

Postcards and Prosecco

Italian politics, water-taxis and Venetian street-planning

In an earlier post, I commented that Amsterdam is quite pretty.  Well, if Amsterdam were to be described as a pretty, young maiden, Venice would be a beautiful, old woman.  Venice is certainly aging yet she is still stunning and well deserved of all the romantic allusions and "Wish you were here" postcards.

The flight over from Amsterdam was largely uneventful (other than Holly's unquenchable thirst).  You might expect Amsterdam and Venice to be similar given they're both old European towns dominated by canals, but we knew we were in an entirely different place the moment we stepped off the plane and entered Marco Polo Airport.

Immediately above the turnstyles where you leave the departure lounges and enter the public spaces, there is a large sign harshly criticising the Italian government (over there in Rome) for delaying the building of an airport shuttle service and displaying in anarchistic-red LED lights the number of days said service has been delayed by the "bureaucratic red tape" (oh, only about 10 years!).  It's not hard to imagine that this sign is the result of all the wild gesticulations, finger-pointing and dramatic shouting that have gone on over the years.

Apart from the regular near-misses with cyclists, Amsterdam seemed a quiet, civilised place where public order was ingrained (we barely even saw grafitti let alone cigarette butts), whereas Venice (and I think it's fair to say, Italy on the whole) is far more likely to loudly proclaim it's displeasure about, well, pretty much anything!

Leaving the terminal, we lug our luggage along the path where the shuttle service would run (while more signs remind that it's the government's fault that we're walking and not riding in the airconditioned comfort of an electric tram) to the piers where you catch your choice of either a long and boring bus trip over the causeway, a sleek (and very expensive) Bond-esque water-taxi, or our middle-of-the-road choice: the Alilaguna vaporetto.  I know, sounds sexy, right?  It's not.  It's basically the same as the public water-buses that ferry the masses through the canals just not as crowded.

Our chosen mode of transport: the Alilaguna vaporetto

Sean Connery's preferred mode of transport: water-taxi

Having said that, our tanned capitán was very dashing in his Aviator sun-glasses, white slacks and matching polo with a fetching navy blue sweater artfully and oh-so-very Roman Holiday draped over his shoulders.  I didn't actually notice any of that but Holly assures me that it's an accurate description.  She also says his name was Antonio.

Anyway, while we cruise slowly towards the main island, (I'm sure it was) Sean Connery and his glamourous (and well-heeled) pals whizz by in their water-taxis leaving us spluttering in their sea-spray.

En route from Marco Polo airport to Venice

After a couple of stops along the way to let passengers dis/embark (told you it was like the bus), we arrive 30 minutes later at Fondamente Nove (or Nouve if you check the map - the first of many helpful-for-tourists discrepancies we discovered with street-naming - maybe it is the ninth new street or perhaps the new ninth street?) in the Cannaregio region of Venice.

Being the seasoned travellers that we obviously are, we now know that a Fondamente is a street that runs alongside a canal and is usually, but not always (again, helping out those tourists), named after the canal, whereas a Calle is a street with no canal.  A Ponte is a bridge crossing over a canal and is often named after the canal it crosses or sometimes the street (or plaza) it leads to or from.  I suspect the town-planner (assuming there was one) was schizophrenic.

Following the email directions provided to us by our host, Andrea, we arrive at the wistfully named Fondamente Zen.  From here, we are supposed to cross Ponte Zanardi but said ponte is nowhere to be found.  In my best broken Italian, we ask a couple of locals but they just give us that endearing Mediterranean shrug where the shoulders, eyebrows and hands gesture up and the mouth turns down.  We're now speaking the universal language and this essentially translates as "your guess is as good as mine, mate".  With no other obvious alternative, we take a punt and try the bridge we are standing next to, Ponte Zen.  As fortune would have it, we find ourselves at the right place when we get to the other side.  It seems obvious now, Ponte Zen is acutally Ponte Zanardi (or is it the other way around?)  Fortunately, Venice is so charming, if you get lost, it will almost certainly be in a beautiful spot.

Fondamente Zen by night

From here, the rest of the way to our accommodation, Ca' Zanardi, is easy.  We enter through the artsy little courtyard (it's hosting an exhibition at the moment) into the ground floor and it's clear that this place was once an extravagant manor house.  Marble covers all the floors, beautiful ornate plasterwork clings to the walls and ceilings (much of it bearing its original gild-work) and the original frescos are still clearly visible throughout the entire three floors.

Our room in Ca' Zanardi (not visible: separate private bathroom)

We're greeted by Andrea who helps us carry our bags up the worn stairs to the second floor.  He shows us through what was probably the original ballroom - the old chandelier still hanging - and out onto the terrazzo where he offers us our first of many glasses of prosecco.  The prosecco is crisp and spritzy and we have already fallen in love with La Serenissima.

Lions, museums and beers. Oh my!

On the tourist trail.

Ok, so we haven't seen any lions here but they are the national emblem of The Netherlends so I'm happy to take some artistic license for the sake of a catchy title.  Besides, the Amsterdam Zoo is not far from here and I'm sure they have lions.

Now, time to get some of the tourist stuff out of the way; today we went to the Royal Palace which was actually quite cool.  Did you know Napolean was the king of Holland?  Neither did I.  Actually, it was his brother, Louis.  He sure lived lush, not that you'd know it from his fussy, ill-tempered French wife, Hortense de Beauharnais, who complained that her bedroom was plain and smelly.  Plain?  The damn room was gilded!  I don't know how they do things in Frenchie-land but I'd be willing to bet that pretty much everyone I know would be reasonably bloody happy with a room like Hortense had.  Bloody cheese-eaters.

We also went to the Botanic Gardens which were ok but, I have to say, the Adelaide Botanic Gardens fare quite well in comparison.

The highlight however would be, without a doubt, the two museums we visited: The van Gogh Museum and the Rijksmuseum.  If you ever visit Amsterdam, you have to put these two places on your "Must see" list.

The Rijksmuseum does an admirable job of taking you through the history of Amsterdam via artifacts and paintings - I'd highly recommend the audio tour (about 5 euros) which tells a fabulous story as you progress from gallery to gallery.  For me, the absolute highlight was seeing Rembrandt's most famous painting: "De Nichtwacht" (or, as it's more properly named, The Company of Frans Banning Cocq and Willem van Ruytenburch - what a wordy bunch the Dutch are).  We've all seen it in books and maybe even on a documentary, but I was unprepared for the sheer size and brilliance of this masterpiece in person.  Despite several attempts by a couple of complete nutters to destroy the painting (acid and a knife attack), it is, in every sense, astounding.  I have to say it did bring a slight moistness to my eyes.

Next up:  the van Gogh Museum.  This one was Holly's choice but I was very pleasantly surprised.  Obviously, there's more than just van Gogh's here but most of the big vG's you'd expect to see are there: Blue Irises, Sunflowers, etc but unfortunately we didn't get to see Starry Night.  However, if you're a van Gogh fan, hell, even if you're not, it's definitely worth a visit.

After being all cultural and that, we hit a couple of pubs to rest our tired feet, drink beer and eat meatballs by a canal.  Fantastic!  Tomorrow we say goodbye to Amsterdam but we've had a good time here; the people are large and largely friendly, the canals and flowers are pretty and the beer is cold.

More pictures from Amsterdam:  Amsterdam Gallery

Of dogs and giants

Welcome to Amsterdam!  Try not to get killed by a cyclist.

7.45am
Amsterdam

Well, we're now in Amsterdam and, boy, are we glad that flight's over.  With almost no sleep on the plane, we've been awake now for the best part of 26 hours straight.  Tired and jetlagged but too early to check-in to our accommodation, we seek out our first coffee.

With coffees and a croissant before us, we turn our tourist-eyes upon Amsterdam (well, the part that exists immediately outside the cafe window).  The first thing you notice is that almost everybody here rides a bike.  There's still plenty of cars on the road but they're easily outnumbered by cyclists.  According to the taxi driver who drove us from the airport, Amsterdam has a population of about 600,000 people who collectively own about 2.5 million bicycles.  Yes, that's about four bikes for every person in the city.  Oh, and none of them wear helmets.  One of the unique things about many of the bikes here is the 'wheelbarrow' or carriage that they have built in which are used to ferry around anything from fresh produce to dogs to small children.

The city has dedicated lanes on every footpath just for cyclists and woe-be-tide any unwary foot pedestrian who ventures onto a bike lane without checking in both directions first.  I imagine that getting hit (which we nearly have several times) by a flying dutchman on his two-wheeled terror would be a messy way to die.

The second thing you notice is how tall these people are.  I think I read somewhere recently that the Dutch are officially the tallest people on earth (average per capita).  I believe it.  Now, stick a Dutchy on a bike and you have a 12 foot blonde giant moving at considerable speed without much regard for your safety.

Amsterdam is quite a pretty town especially if you take a wander along any of the many canals for which the city is famous for.  From the well-kept and charming canal houses lining the -ahem- canals, to the abundance of markets and museums, there's plenty to see here.  Begonias, geraniums, pansies etc are everywhere; hanging in baskets off the bridge railings over the canals, from hanging baskets on the street lights, and even fake flowers woven around bike handlebars and baskets.

Also, many of the canals have floating gardens of flowers and some even have veggie patches.  It's all very picturesque and, when the locals aren't trying to run you down, they're quite friendly (and pretty much all of them speak English).

Fortunately, all this beauty is not besmirched by doggy do-do, which it easily could be given that Amsterdammers are about as fond of dogs as they are bikes.  If cars are to cats in this city, bikes are to dogs.  I keep expecting to see a six foot tall hipster dog peddling down Van Wou Straat (sans helmet), texting on his iPhone and leaving behind swathes of unsuspecting tourists skittled in his wake.

Tontine therapy

September 3rd, 2012

Airborne again

The time between time in various locations including Afghani and Russian airspace.

Oh, Fate, you cruel mistress!  We board and, after much shuffling of seats, a quick round of "who's child is that?" and some warm-up screaming, we've now got two pre-teens, two toddlers and a new born sitting well within range of a tactical pillow strike.

The two older girls turned out to be great; didn't hear a peep out of them all night but the toddlers and the new born totally live up to my expectations.  Trying to sleep on a plane is hard enough without being woken up (despite earplugs and two what-barely-passes-for-pillows over my head and ears) at irrregular but increasing frequency by children wailing.

Airport design 101: Make it so they can't find anything.

Killing Time

6pm-ish.  Kuala Lumpur International Airport

Three hours, two movies, and one kid who'll never play the piano (I'm kidding!) later, we finally set down at KLIA.  Our connecting flight to Amsterdam is not for another five and a half hours later so now we get to play the "what shall we do for five hours in an airport to pass the time?" game.  Oh joy.  I love that game.

We circumnavigate the terminal three or four times before we finally decide that the best thing to do in this situation is to find a bar and drink beer.  It's either that or do as Christopher Columbus did when he failed (for the third time) to find the Indies and just call wherever you finally find yourself "America".  Not sure how the locals (or indeed, the Americans) would take that so beer is the only reasonable option left to us.

At the bar, we get chatty with another traveller who we find out is from Grange but is about to up-stumps and take her bat and ball to the south of France.  A tall, slightly mad sort whose lipstick (it's obvious to us) is set to stun.  She's a bit of a lark actually and it's not long before she and Holly decide that enough beer has been consumed and now a massage is in order.

Now, let me give you a little PSA; those little Malaysian masseurs might not look like much but they have hands of iron.  20 minutes later, oiled and wincing we make our way to our departure lounge and stare zombie-eyed at the floor while we sit out the rest of the wait.

Good parenting starts with leaving the kids at home

Leaving on a jet plane - finally!
(not the John Denver song)

1.30pm
1822km from Adelaide, 11582m up and just North-West of Ayres Rock

Doors are armed, the crew is seated, wheels are up, flaps are down and we're on our way!

We find ourselves seated in Row 25 in the middle aisle and en-route to our first stop: Kuala Lumpur.  Fortunately, we have the whole row to ourselves.  Unfortunately it's not long before some dratted kid a couple of rows back starts crying; a weird "rur rur rur" sound.  After it goes on for several minutes, I comment to Holly "that guy's gonna flatten the kid's battery if he keeps trying to start it up."  You all know how much I absolutely adore children but after about a minute listening to his starter-motor siren-song, this one's starting to make me doubt my sanity.

Holly starts to read so I put on my headphones and start movie number one.  It's a Jason Statham affair.  Russians and Chinese mafia both after a little girl.  A pretty standard action flick but I'll take it any day over a whinging kid two rows back who sounds like my first car trying to turn over on a cold morning.

Woah.  I just saw the outside temperature on the flight information: -52C.  No wonder he couldn't get that kid to start.

Ground control! We need backup!

Boarding & Departure

11am.

After two more announcements, a frazzled ground crew, and a two hour delay, we're finally ready to board - just as the complimentary sandwiches and chips arrive to quieten the ravenous hoardes who promptly go about doing what ravenous hoardes are known (and, let's be honest, expected) to do.  If they didn't, what would we call them?  As boarding commences, nary but empty chip packets and crumpled sandwich wrappers are to be found.  And some of them look gnawed.  You try putting 300 people in a room together, make them wait two hours and then throw free food at them and see what happens.  Not a pretty sight.

False starts and sandbags

Arrival
(not the Abba album)

9am.
Departure Lounge 20, Adelaide Airport

"Ding ding dong. Ladies and gentlemen, we regret to inform you that this service has been delayed due to technical difficulties. Our engineers are rectifying the problem and we anticipate departure in 30 minutes to an hour." So begins our European wonder-tour.

Sitting in the departure lounge, the seats are arranged so that you're forced to look uncomfortably at the person sitting across from you. No wonder iPhones and laptops are popular. I feel like I'm on a big, open-air train that's going nowhere. So many people, so many faces... all strangers with their own anxieties and foibles. I'm reminded again of the amazing assortment of shapes and sizes that we come in and what an interesting (if somewhat disappointing) collection we'd make to the alien pre-teen that's looking down at Earth wanting to collect the whole set.

Holly's excited (and what a consumate traveller she is; she's already on her third trip to the ladies and striking up conversation with random strangers in the departure lounge) but already missing the cats and I'm slightly nervous thinking "what have I forgotten?" and "were those sandbags by the front gate as we left?" Who knew cats know how to set up a strategic defensive position? Thank god we never taught them how to reload.

Cats are not trustworthy

2 September 2012

Leaving home
(not the Green Day song)

5am.
Sunningdale.

Ergh.

Shower? Check. Luggage? Check. Tickets? Check.

Ready? Ready.

Ooooh, the cats know something's up and they don't look happy. Gypsy's disappeared outside somewhere and LeeLu's decided to join her, bolting through the back door, tail hung low and bristling.

Deb's here to take us to the airport - what a gal! We wave goodbye to the house and hope the cats don't make plans to have us replaced. LeeLu takes up position on the front fence (is that... a sniper rifle?) glowering through slitted eyes as we drive away. If only they knew how much we love them (the little bitches).

See you soon, kitties!