(Mis)adventures in traveling

My flight from Melbourne to Hong Kong was scheduled to depart at noon. I had a plan: catch a tram from St. Kilda to the city center at 8:30, in time to catch the 9:00 express bus to the airport, which would drop me off at the international terminal around 9:30, a healthy two and half hours before my flight. (Don't tell me, but since I am generally running a half hour behind schedule, this plan was actually formed to get me to the airport the recommended two hours prior to departure).


At 8:30 precisely, I bid a sad farewell to Pint on Punt, loaded my backpacks on, had a friend take a picture of me outside, and trekked down the street to 96 tram (the very same tram I had so much trouble finding on my first night in Melbourne). I had forgotten how far down Fitzroy St. the 96 stop was and so didn't get moving until 8:45, when I forced myself into the overstuffed tram, trying not to take out too many disgruntled people in suits with the person-sized cargo on my back. I apologetically squashed myself into a corner and for 15 minutes the tram jerked it's way toward the city as I sat in blissful ignorance of the fact that I had left my sleeping bag at the hostel.

When it hit me, there was a minute of indecision. I don't have time to go back. It would be stupid and I will probably miss my flight. But I don't want to buy a new sleeping bag. And I really like this one. It probably won't take me that long to go back. Okay I'm going to do it. This thought process had caused me to miss a stop and lose precious time, but I was determined not to leave the continent without my sleeping bag.


So at the next stop I hurdled of the tram, hurrying to the other side of the platform and counting the seconds until another one came going the opposite direction. I jumped on. By the time it dropped my off in St. Kilda it was 9:15 and I was realizing that I probably should have just left it behind as a casualty of travel. But I was already so close, so I ran down Fitzroy Street with my big blue backpack bouncing haphazardly on my back as I clutched my little orange one to my front, laughing along with all of the people who saw me coming and made room for me on the sidewalk.

I burst into reception, grabbed my sleeping bag from the storage rack, yelled something that I'm sure was unintelligible, and hurried back out onto the street. I didn't know if I could run all the way back down Fitzroy Street, since I was already sweating in my fleece jacket and my knees were begging me not to. So I made the decision to go to the closer tram stop, catch the 67 or 64 up to Burke Street where I could hopefully catch the 86 across to the bus terminal and not lose too much time. I would have taken a moment to revel in my rather handy knowledge of the Melbourne tram routes after only two weeks, but I could see a tram coming up the road and I still had to cross the street, so I took off at a knee-friendly waddle towards the crossing. My timing was off, and I was prevented from crossing the street by a series of cars that didn't seem to understand what a hurry I was in (if only they drove on the correct side of the road in Australia I wouldn't have had to cross the street and could have caught the tram, but that's another complaint all together).

When the light finally changed, I could see my tram pulling away. I crossed the street trying to look as dejected as possible, and when I reached the tram stop I turned towards the tram's retreating back end and gave an exasperated sigh that I hoped was visible to somebody on board. I'm not sure why I thought that this was necessary, but I had nothing else to do besides wait for the next tram and I suppose I needed to vent my frustration somehow.

Then a bird shat on my head.

Well, my head and my hand actually. At this point all I could do was laugh, and I was so busy using leaves to try and clean myself up that I was pleasantly surprised to find a tram pulling up beside me. I hopped on and asked a perfect stranger to take a picture of me with my bags and my sleeping bag and the bird poo, because despite being late to the airport, I couldn't help thinking that the whole situation was hopelessly funny.

When I jumped off the 67 at Burke Street, I didn't have to wait long for an 86, which carried me to the bus terminal. I arrived at 10:02, just in time to see the 10:00 shuttle leaving without me. So I bought a ticket, went to the bathroom to deal with the bird poo situation, and nervously sat waiting for the 10:20, which didn't actually leave until 10:30, by which point I was wondering what would happen if I did miss my flight.

When I arrived at the airport just before 11:00, there was a line the likes of which I had never seen winding around the departures area, and I realized I was going to have to beg someone to help me out so I could check in and get through security. But it turned out that the line had nothing to do with Qantas and I was able to check in, simultaneously filling out a customs form and telling the woman behind the counter that no, I wasn't carrying and explosives in my backpack. By 11:05 I was rushing off to security, which was blessedly empty. A guard pointed at my water bottle, which I had forgotten about, and watched with a mixture of awe and disgust as I chugged its contents. I could have just poured it out, but they always give such small cups of water on airplanes and I didn't want to arrive in Hong Kong an more dehydrated than absolutely necessary. Then (and I probably should have seen this coming) for the first time in my life, I was pulled aside for a random security screening. They rifled through my backpack, patted me down, checked me with one of those detector sticks, and then let me go.

I looked at my watch. 11:13. All of that worry and I was 47 minutes early for my flight. When I made my way through the sea of duty-free gifts I arrived at the departures board by my gate, which was wisely telling me to relax.