It’s raining in Sydney and around 65 degrees. I did not sign up for this. Neither did Cathay Pacific print on my boarding pass ‘WARNING: SMALL CHILDREN ARE LIABLE TO SCREAM AND KICK THE BACK OF YOUR SEAT DURING TRANSIT’. They should have.
Arriving in Sydney was pretty straightforward – the immigration guy wasn’t really interested in my papers – ‘ah jeez, put that away mate, it’s all on me screen’. Point taken, and he was cheery enough for a man who spends his day nodding at people. Next task was to present myself in front of the agreed meeting point with the Work and Travel Co., the agency which I suppose is acting as my ‘fixer’ -
‘Meet us between exits A/B and C/D’ said the email. ‘You’ll easily spot us, we’ll be holding a sign with our logo on it’.
Okay, exit B…..exit A…oh crap, turn around with much flailing of the upper extremities, exit A…exit B….exit C….right, this must be the meeting point. No-one to be seen holding a sign. After ten minutes of being British and not asking anyone for help, advice, information or indeed enlightenment of any kind, I sauntered over casually to a guy who at least looked like he wasn’t in a similar kind of limbo and enquired if he was a rep. of some sort. He was, of course, the WTC rep. and yes, he had a sign. He had a sign which he had considerately positioned at the bottom of a whole pile of similar signs. How silly of me, I reasoned, not to have performed at least a cursory shuffle of his cards as I stood there idly, relaxing in the afterglow of my soothing nine hour night flight from Hong Kong.
Now though, as I write, sitting in the library-cum-computer room-cum-café of the Sydney Central YHA, I am relaxed and happy. Armed with the knowledge that my room will be available in six, no, sorry, five minutes, I can look forward to the imminent arrival of fourteen or fifteen hours sleep and the distinct possibility that the room may have stopped swaying when I awake.
And with that, I bid you good night.
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