day one.
I’m in the aisle seat. I’m not meant to be. I’m meant to be one spot over, but Jako cut in front and now sits smugly in my place.
I buckle in and wonder briefly if it matters – if, in event of a fiery crash, my family would end up with Jako's ashes and vice versa.
The aisle seat is better regardless. Better for leg-stretching, bathroom breaks, and bothering flight attendants. The only trade off, of course, comes every time your neighbour decides to stretch his legs, empty his bladder, or wave down a steward, and you’re forced to engage in a muted game of musical chairs.
Thirteen hours fly by.
I read. I watch a movie. I unload life problems on Jako and make a mental note to ignore his advice. I play iPad pinball. I lie upright, eyes shut, trying to sleep, all too aware of my breathing, the armrest digging into my side, the seat cushion slipping. I watch another movie.
The plane touches down. I yawn.
“We’re in America, boys.”
We make our way through airport security and collect our bags.
Where is the unsmiling wall of airport officials? The invasive screeners? The rubber gloves and rough frisking? Instead I get a quick look up and down and a chuckle at my passport photo.
What? Don’t I look dangerous enough for you?
We wait for the airport shuttle to take us to the car rental yard. I wonder whether I should feel excited. It is not as warm as I’d imagined it, nor as beautiful. The sky is overcast. The roads are neglected.
But then I remember it is six in the morning – and I remember what six in the morning feels like in Wellington. And I smile.
I buckle in and wonder briefly if it matters – if, in event of a fiery crash, my family would end up with Jako's ashes and vice versa.
The aisle seat is better regardless. Better for leg-stretching, bathroom breaks, and bothering flight attendants. The only trade off, of course, comes every time your neighbour decides to stretch his legs, empty his bladder, or wave down a steward, and you’re forced to engage in a muted game of musical chairs.
Thirteen hours fly by.
I read. I watch a movie. I unload life problems on Jako and make a mental note to ignore his advice. I play iPad pinball. I lie upright, eyes shut, trying to sleep, all too aware of my breathing, the armrest digging into my side, the seat cushion slipping. I watch another movie.
The plane touches down. I yawn.
“We’re in America, boys.”
We make our way through airport security and collect our bags.
Where is the unsmiling wall of airport officials? The invasive screeners? The rubber gloves and rough frisking? Instead I get a quick look up and down and a chuckle at my passport photo.
What? Don’t I look dangerous enough for you?
We wait for the airport shuttle to take us to the car rental yard. I wonder whether I should feel excited. It is not as warm as I’d imagined it, nor as beautiful. The sky is overcast. The roads are neglected.
But then I remember it is six in the morning – and I remember what six in the morning feels like in Wellington. And I smile.
In an effort to keep ourselves awake, we head for Knott’s Berry Farm – a theme park notable for its distinct lack of berries and/or farm life. Upon arrival, we enquire as to the cost of entry.
Us: Excuse me. How much is it for a day pass?
Them: That would be $60, sir.
Us: Okay. What about that deal advertised in the sticker on the window directly in front of your face?
Them: Oh. That would be $45 for a day pass and an all-you-can-eat buffet, sir.
Us: Wait. $45 extra for the buffet?
Them: No. $45 for both the day pass and buffet, sir.
Us: But you just said it was $60 for the day pass by itself.
Them: That’s right, sir.
Us: Why would anyone get the day pass by itself?
Them: Some people don’t like the food, sir.
Us: But regardless of whether they like the food or not, it’s still fifteen dollars cheaper. It’s effectively like you’re giving us fifteen dollars in exchange for us eating your food.
Them: That’s right, sir.
Us: ...
We purchase the $45 day pass and all-you-can-eat buffet.
Us: Excuse me. How much is it for a day pass?
Them: That would be $60, sir.
Us: Okay. What about that deal advertised in the sticker on the window directly in front of your face?
Them: Oh. That would be $45 for a day pass and an all-you-can-eat buffet, sir.
Us: Wait. $45 extra for the buffet?
Them: No. $45 for both the day pass and buffet, sir.
Us: But you just said it was $60 for the day pass by itself.
Them: That’s right, sir.
Us: Why would anyone get the day pass by itself?
Them: Some people don’t like the food, sir.
Us: But regardless of whether they like the food or not, it’s still fifteen dollars cheaper. It’s effectively like you’re giving us fifteen dollars in exchange for us eating your food.
Them: That’s right, sir.
Us: ...
We purchase the $45 day pass and all-you-can-eat buffet.
The gates open. Over the loudspeakers there is an initial drum-roll. And then – “Oh, say can you see... by the dawn's early light...”
Around us, the crowd belts out the US anthem in unison.
I openly stare at a group of 12 year olds with their wee hands firmly over their wee hearts. Behind them stands a tattooed caricature of man with a handlebar moustache and denim vest. His bellowing voice is joined by the crooning of a large flowery woman to his side.
I ponder the response back home were Rainbow’s End to begin each day with a sterling rendition of God Defend New Zealand.
Around us, the crowd belts out the US anthem in unison.
I openly stare at a group of 12 year olds with their wee hands firmly over their wee hearts. Behind them stands a tattooed caricature of man with a handlebar moustache and denim vest. His bellowing voice is joined by the crooning of a large flowery woman to his side.
I ponder the response back home were Rainbow’s End to begin each day with a sterling rendition of God Defend New Zealand.
We sprint from ride to ride.
Think exhaustion. Think beating sun and dehydration. Think headaches and weariness and childlike enthusiasm.
We consider devising a plan in case anyone gets separated from the group. We don’t. Peter and Derek promptly get separated from the group. We get sunburnt. We go on a ride called “The Boomerang,” which is solely designed to make you feel like throwing up. We find Peter and Derek. We eat all we can eat at the all-you-can-eat buffet. We wander aimlessly. We get drenched on the log flume. Peter wins a plush toy.
We leave.
Think exhaustion. Think beating sun and dehydration. Think headaches and weariness and childlike enthusiasm.
We consider devising a plan in case anyone gets separated from the group. We don’t. Peter and Derek promptly get separated from the group. We get sunburnt. We go on a ride called “The Boomerang,” which is solely designed to make you feel like throwing up. We find Peter and Derek. We eat all we can eat at the all-you-can-eat buffet. We wander aimlessly. We get drenched on the log flume. Peter wins a plush toy.
We leave.
We drive to the hostel in Santa Monica as I desperately claw to stay awake in the back seat.
We've been awake for 34 hours.
We check into our room. Our British roommates are partying and consuming cheap rum. I smile and make polite small talk. My vision stumbles.
The world blurs.
I subtly mention that we’ve been awake for 35 hours. Did I mention that we’d been awake for 35 hours?
I edge towards my bed. My head hits the pillow. My eyes close.
And I sleep.
We've been awake for 34 hours.
We check into our room. Our British roommates are partying and consuming cheap rum. I smile and make polite small talk. My vision stumbles.
The world blurs.
I subtly mention that we’ve been awake for 35 hours. Did I mention that we’d been awake for 35 hours?
I edge towards my bed. My head hits the pillow. My eyes close.
And I sleep.