I’m sitting in a hotel room in Melbourne. It has been my temporary home for the last three days while I and a couple-hundred other people attend Continuum 8: Craftonomicon, the 51st national science fiction convention. This is the first convention I’ve ever been to and it has been a hoot so far.
I also haven’t been away from home, on my own, in about ten years, since before small lad was born. I haven’t flown since 2005, either, so this has been an adventure on many levels thus far.
I haven’t posted very often this year, despite a New Year’s resolution to post more regularly, because first I ran out of things to blather about, then I didn’t particularly want to post my thoughts on the foibles of friends and ex-friends that were driving me nuts. It seemed rude. But I think I can sum it all up by saying: nothing. It isn’t worth the brain space. But the threnody lingers on.
Last Thursday, having purchased new luggage (it’s red!), I betook myself off to the train station, having dropped small lad at school with many promises to ring him that evening. After raising my eyebrows at the cost of my train ticket (to the airport is a little less than four times the cost of a ticket to the city), up and down I go with my nifty case on wheels (wheeeee!) to catch my train.
At the station I got to listen to a girl who was flying overseas for the first time and calling herself an idiot for packing too much stuff. Her Mum was with her, but she was having this conversation very loudly on her phone. (Her luggage weighed thirty-six kilos. Which was over her weight limit. Why didn’t she just pack differently?). Her plan was to weigh in and hand over anything she didn’t think she would need to her mum to be taken home again. (Why didn’t she just pack differently?)
That mystery of life got me through the waiting for the train, so I was glad. I had my book to read, a cliché I think, travelling to a speculative fiction convention reading the Fellowship of the Ring, but I fancied it, so there. I read my book. I looked out of the window. I talked to a gang of little old ladies about the weather. They were jaunting into town for something and discussing somebody’s grandkid, who was the grandkid the somebody liked.
I was starting to think by this stage I really don’t get out enough, because this was both hugely entertaining and somewhat bizarre.
At Sydney Airport I had a blonde moment and try to check-in after checking in online the day before. Why not, I say. There were some very tense people, some very relaxed people and some very confused people at check-in and bag drop-off, but little or no real worry about people pushing in, or being let in ahead of others – people at fun parks take note.
The security checkpoint was pretty blah, although I did have to go back and take off my shoes. Glad it wasn’t the underwire in my bra – taking it off under my shirt is no drama, but putting it back on (under the shirt) has a technical difficulty of 9.5. I've only ever achieved an 8.3.
There is so much food at Sydney Airport. And wine. They have wine-tasting booths in the terminals, which I didn’t partake of, despite the temptation. I wonder if it’s a type of flight insurance – the plane may crash, but you’ll be relaxed and not hurt yourself too badly.
On the plane I had another blonde moment and sat in someone else’s seat (I don’t know if all six of you who read this blog know this, but I can neither read nor count). The plane banked right just after takeoff and I goggled down the wing at the ocean below. Great view. Then I went back to reading my book. Then I’d look out the window again.
On descent, when my eardrums tried to burst themselves (the ascent didn't bother me that much, for which I was profoundly grateful), a bub at the end of the plane started crying miserably. Obviously her ears hurt too. I felt sorry for mum, who started shushing bub with ever more increasing 'be quiet!' tones than 'it's okay honey, I know it hurts" ones.
Normally I plan my travel better than this, but for some reason decided that I’d just wing it from Avalon airport. I was scared. But there was a transfer service, and the coach was very fancy – there were seatbelts – to Southern Cross station (Spencer Street for oldies like me, or at least I feel I’m an oldie). It was a pleasant ride; more looking out of the window and reading and looking and reading. Since I’d been sitting in a train, plane and bus, I decided to walk to my hotel. Plus, I couldn’t seem to catch a cab. It was only a thirty minute walk (and I’m thinking of repeating the performance on the return trip), but possibly ill-advised. I arrived at the hotel wind-blown and a bit breathy, which did nothing for the man on reception. Which was a pity, because I bought a new bra before the trip and the girls have never looked so awesome. Someone else came up to the reception counter just after me, asking a question and ReceptionMan said, “I’ll just book this person in.” Sadly, not my emphasis, and, well, rude. Meh, maybe he was having a bad day. Everyone else has been utterly nice and professional (occasionally two mutually-exclusive states).
It did underline the journey for me, though, that I’d had a physical embodiment of it being the journey that matters and not the arrival.
I went for a wander around, having looked at the mini-bar (not a thrilling collection of nibbles) and deciding I needed more fortifying fare. I discovered a second-hand bookshop just across the road, so my day was pretty much made right then and there. Then I got some olives, cheese and mineral water (and wine for the next day). The slightly mortified looks of other guests in the lobby when I returned was amusing – that look, gak!, look away!, sequence always cracks me up. I always expect it to be followed by the raising of a lady’s fan and fanning the face rapidly. But then my associative thinking is a bit weird.
Then I talked to husbandly and small lad, who for some reason asked if the nibbles and the hotel room and the second-hand bookshop taken all together was heaven. Sure, if he says so.
I sat up in my hotel bed with nibbles and watched mindless television. All in all, small lad was right.
However, I discovered our beautiful bathroom with the entirely pool-like bath has spoiled me for all other bathtubs, particularly those that only hold a small bucket’s-worth of water. The view out of my window is a dark brown brick wall*, some beige window boxes with scraggly plants and next to them, air conditioning fans. Ew. And why is the linen in my room white? I keep checking it repeatedly to see if I’ve spoiled it.
I do need to get out more.
*I've been very careful to close the curtains when I'm getting ready to have a shower, because I don't wnat anyone to see me naked through the window. Oh wait...
I woke up early the next morning to a lovely greasy breakfast (bacon and eggs!), then went back to bed for a few hours. Then I went walking, on my way to shopping. Strangely in my head there’s some guilt-reversal happening there: rather than walking off the breakfast, I was walking off the shopping.
It was a burgundy leather coat. Mmmmm, graaaarrr, leather. And shiny things. For hair.
Then the convention started, and more of that anon, anon, Sir!
