I was woken at 5:30 by the anguished cries of my 28 day old son, hungry for his morning feed. Two wet outfits later I had to call on my wife for help while I packed my bag.

This was to be my first day back at work since my son's birth, except that instead of catching a train to my office I was flying to a meeting in Canberra. My wife dropped me off at the station and I caught the train to the airport.

It looked like a magnificent day outside, blue skies with just a hint of morning cloud. Finally, I thought, I could look forward to a smooth flight where I could just enjoy the scenery outside. Before booking the flight a couple of days prior I had first consulted the forecast to ensure that I would enjoy a flight hopefully free of turbulence.

As I rode the escalators up from the Domestic Terminal train station and the Baggage collection area on the ground floor I looked to my right to see Gail Kennedy?, the CEO of Westpac Bank at the valet parking desk. I recalled the item on the morning news where they announced big cuts to staff at their recent acquisition, St George Bank, in order to save money and "increase efficiency".


I had checked in online the day before and selected my seat. As I boarded the Qantas 734 at Gate 7 of Sydney Airport Terminal 3 I made the dreadful discovery that my seat, 24F, was second from the rear of the aircraft. As anyone who hates turbulence will tell you, the back of an aircraft is the worst spot to sit.

Oh well, I consoled myself, it should be a smooth flight and I should get some good views unobstructed by the wing.

As we taxied out to the shorter of the parallel runways I noticed that the Qantas safety video had changed, updated for the A380 economy seats. The first officer introduced the captain and herself over the PA, said that the weather was fine in Canberra, but then revealed exactly what I didn't want to hear...

"Canberra air traffic control wave warned us to expect clear air turbulence below 10,000 feet so It might be a bumpy descent."

And here I was stuck at the rear of the aircraft, trapped. There was nothing that I could do.

As we leapt into the air and climbed into the skies above I felt the yawing and bouncing of the aircraft through invisible obstacles. We turned north over the Eastern Suburbs, then South across the ocean and parallel to the sandstone cliffs of the Royal National Park.

We continued South until we turned South West across the coastline, just south of the Port Kembla steelworks, visible beneath us. We were still shaking, but it wasn't that bad. The cabin crew were serving juice or water and a pecan and muesli biscuit that I didn't eat due to the honey in the list of ingredients.


The sandstone ridges of the Illawarra Escarpment, pale against the dark green bush, were beneath us when suddenly the air turned bumpy. The pilot ordered seatbelts on as we hit the forewarned clear air turbulence. Too early, I thought, hating sitting in the back, hating the feeling of dropping. Why do I get the seatbelt lights on in the middle of every flight, I asked myself.


Thankfully, the turbulence was quickly over and finally I could enjoy the scenery below. We flew over blue river dams and river valleys enclosed by steep sandstone cliffs. The green bush gave way to yellow and eroded farmland.

A new windfarm appeared in the distance, near an empty lake. I didn't recognise Lake George without even a hint of water.


In the last stages of our flight, as we dropped low over the hills before the airport, the turbulence returned with a vengeance. This time I expected it, knew that it would soon be over as I watched us the runway approach. We hit the deck with a heavy thud, but we stuck and were soon taxiing towards the terminal.

I walked past the government minister Tanya Plibersek as I was exiting the boarding lounge.

As the taxi drove me towards our corporate headquarters I knew fear. The trees around us were bending and shaking in the heavy gusts of wind. I sat in the meeting room and could hear the whistle of wind stream through gaps in the windows. Visitors who arrived after me complained of very rough flights. Checking the weather on my mobile phone I could see that, by the afternoon, this wind would stretch all
the way to Sydney.

Oh how the weather gods of Canberra hate me. The last three flights home to Sydney had passed through evening storms and turbulent weather fronts. Fortunately I was booked to sit just over the wing for the flight home, and at a flight length of half an hour I knew I could cope. But the question was, could I be bothered to put up with this unpleasant experience.

By the early afternoon I was terribly sleepy, by nights disrupted by bub. I listened to the Microsoft-aligned reps drone on, not understanding our needs, but probably doing enough to convince their adherents in the organisation. We have a good record of making bad IT decisions, decisions that take the fun out of work.

The wind was still fierce outside, would probably be another excuse for late flights. I just wanted to go home and be with my family. If I stayed any longer I would fall asleep, so I made a decision.

I excused myself and made a phone call, changing my destination to Sydney's International Terminal.

Was I flying overseas? What flight goes from Canberra Airport to the International Terminal? The answers are no and none.

I caught the Murrays coach. First stop, Sydney International Terminal from which I can catch the train home. For an extra hour and a half's travel I get no turbulence and no waiting around for late flights at Canberra Airport, and for 1/5 the price. Different class of passenger though. No suits.


I must warn of the taxis in Canberra. Though our offices are maybe a kilometre from the Civic Centre and on a major road, it took over half an hour for the ordered taxi to arrive at the pick-up. And that's not an isolated case.

The coach arrived at Sydney's International Airport earlier than the scheduled flight. An ABC Television reporter was in the process of packing up after filming a piece on the arrival home of an Australian injured in the Mumbai terrorist attacks.

I don't know if I want to fly to Canberra again. Maybe next time we can all go down and enjoy a break at the same time. Friends offered us a spare room...

Photos

Late night television tends to be pretty dire, endless informercials masquerading as programming, ads for mobile phone sex videos and singles sites, evangelical preachers or stations closed for the night. I may be a creature of the night, but I certainly wouldn't stay up to watch any of those programs.

Last night, a Saturday night, was a little different, at least for a few hours. There were lots of movies on the TV, so much so that I stayed up to watch rather than trying to catch an hour's sleep in between feeds. Started off with Jurassic Park, then some Reign of Fire, which I have tried to watch a few times unsuccessfully (ended up recording it). On another channel, Men in Black, which is perfect for light, uninvolved viewing.

After all these big Hollywood motion pictures the commercial stations went into SBS mode. I mean, what's a movie about a East European transvestite doing on Channel 9? Channel 7 had the movie City of Ghosts on. It was about an American conman who had escaped to Cambodia. Actually, I didn't care about the plotline, but the photography of rural and city Cambodia was evocative.

It was a bit like sitting on an overnight long distance airline flight. With nothing better to do you end up half watching movies on the main screen that you ordinarily wouldn't bother viewing. And they always end up being more enjoyable that way.

In the wee hours of the morning when let the dog out to do his business the illusion of night flying was made more complete. The sky above me was clear and I could see the stars in sharp focus. The city around me was dark and silent as it so rarely is. I could have been up there in the sky, cruising awake over the sleeping lands with only the hum of the jet engine to be heard.

I was supposed to be in Canberra, but I'm glad I stayed in Sydney. It will be yet another day of rough flights between the cities. Today is very hot and the air is grey with the haze of high humidity, reminscent of the Asian tropics. A perfect day for ice kacang and limau ais, for lazing beneath a ceiling fan beside and watching the world trundle past outside under tropical thunderheads.

While today I do not wish to be up in that sky, it is a good day for watching others fly, silhoutted against the pale high cloud. As I sat in the train I watched an aircraft leave a contrail far above Sydney. High enough that the long thin cloud of ice crystal suspended far above this pre-summer heat left a shadow on the clouds below. You can see the effect in the photos below.



B finished work yesterday. This morning she is ensconced in a hospital in Kogarah, undergoing regular tests on herself and the baby. We have had so little to do with hospitals until this pregnancy and it's a shock to see how run down the public hospital buildings look. Much of Kogarah seems devoted to medical services and the nearby parking is either expensive or too time limited to be of use. Walking some of the streets can be a little scary as there are mental health and drug dependency clinics nearby. Still, not long until it will all be over.

I'm actually forward to it. After our final antenatal class on Saturday I realised how much I will fall in love with our child. Playing with it's tiny foot poking out from B's belly makes you understand that there's another life inside of her.

Hopefully, the baby can hold on until we have finished the seemingly endless task of cleaning up the nursery. Of course, cleaning out one area of the house leads to tidying another room to make space for the shifted items, which means cleaning out other spaces... It's endless!

I learned a new word today: lek. It means a gathering of males for competitive breeding displays. My discovery was triggered by Jeffrey Braithwaite's paper Lekking displays in contemporary organizations: Ethologically oriented, evolutionary and cross-species accounts of male dominance (DOI: 10.1108/14777260810898732), published in the Journal of Health Organisation and Management.

The topic of the paper will come as no surprise to anyone who has met with management. To quote Braithwaite's findings:
Within the organizational lek male managers display mainly by power dressing, positioning, and exercising power and influence via verbal and behavioural means.Who would have thought that all that management sophistication was just a primitive mating display!

Press release.

Two weeks after he was born we finally settled on Alex's middle name.

We had decided long ago that our children would have a Chinese middle name. Mother in law wanted a Mandarin (Putonghua) name, saying that it would replace the other Chinese dialects in future. Right though she may be, B doesn't speak Mandarin, only Cantonese, and the Mandarin names are not only difficult to correctly pronounce, but also the official Pinyin romanisation looks nothing like the sound.

At the last moment we changed to a Cantonese name. It doesn't matter if the language is "dying" because this a way of honouring it and anyway, the characters (not official, because you can only register English character names) are the same as in Mandarin.

After all that, what is his middle name? Ming-Lang 明龍.

It means "Bright Dragon". Actually, Lang is not the most correct romanisation of the character, which is also symbolic of the Chinese Emperor, but it's how B's surname was written so we kept it.

Hopefully our Bright Dragon won't be Ming the Merciless and be kind enough not to be so unsettled at night!

I arrived at the hospital this morning to find a very tired wife and a son sleeping noisily in a cot besides her. Welcome to day 2 of a newborn baby.

Unfortunately B didn't get much rest today. The midwives are in and out measuring this and that, offering help to breastfeed the bub, the service staff are changing linen and supplying food. Little Alex, gurgles, farts and sometimes cries away, sometimes needing a nappy check and a feed.

Almost as soon as Alex was placed under the warming lamp, shortly after his birth and first feed, he opened his sticky eyes and looked at me. He knew the voices of his mum and dad, focussed his attention on us.

He (and sometimes we) finds the hospital room a little too cold and dark. When he was particularly unsettled today I took him out for a walk along the warmer and brighter corridors. Alex loved the natural light, opening his eyes, focusing as best he could on the light and movement. And our faces. That's pretty amazing for one so young. It's good to see that curiosity.

My Mum, one of my brothers and his daughter (my niece) came in for a visit in the afternoon. Then one of B's cousins straight afterwards. We had just settled Alex for 15 minutes when along came B's mum and friend. Naturally everyone wanted to hold Alex the whole time. He napped, then was alert, then napped, was alert, and so on.

Each one of these people (with the exception of the niece who is less than 2 years old!) is a parent. I guess that because it's not their baby, that they forget that other people's babies need some time to sleep without disturbance. It's all very well for them to cuddle bub and go home, but then we were left with a baby who wouldn't settle into his cot and sleep without being picked up and cuddled. And then I had to go home, leaving poor, sleepy B to manage by herself.

I'm sure that, right now, she would swap positions with me to look after Alex and she could sit here on the sofa with our dog Kita lying silently and calmly besides her. Can't forget that he needs some loving too!

For all the troubles, the love and warmth shown by everyone is wonderfully overwhelming and very welcome. Tomorrow is a new day and I can't wait to see B and Bub again.

Today B and I welcomed our son Alex into the world.

In a delivery suite noisy with the sound of two Malaysian conversing (B and the midwife), the labour process was surprisingly short and relatively easy (though, of course still painful), especially for a first time mum like B. The expectation was that the birth would take place in the late afternoon or evening. Instead, Alex was out before lunch!

Seen with a new father's eyes Alex is terribly handsome and cute. It was wonderful to hold him, to reassure him with the sound of my voice and to listen to him cry like a kookaburra. B pulled through amazingly well. I only wish that I could be with them both on this first night, but our furry baby at home also needs s0me attention.

Tomorrow I will hopefully post some "authorised" photos. Right now this new dad is exhausted and needs to get his sleep.

Tomorrow night B should be in hospital, waiting for the synthetic hormones used to induce birth to take effect. The next day we will welcome our child into the world.

Our obstetrician, Dr Ho, scared B into thinking that he wanted to wait another week. That's after surprising one of his previous patient's children with a big "boo!". I like him a lot, he is a big tease with a wicked sense of humour.

It's both exciting and scary at the same time. When it comes to the baby, I'm just excited, looking forward to holding it for that first time. The scary part is the labour.

Right now I'm just tired. A friend of ours said that you know when it's close to being time when the mother begins cleaning up the house. Our last few weekends have been all about rearranging the contents of rooms and throwing out junk. Coupled with the disturbed nights of late pregnancy it's exhausting work.

At least we got out of the house yesterday, catching the train down to the city to visit the Flight Centre European Travel Expo at Darling Harbour. For once I didn't get a severe case of travel sickness and try to book a holiday. More fun was eating ice creams at Passionflower and taking a walk in the sunny weather. I do hope that Baby didn't enjoy their mother's durian flavoured dessert. I would hate to be outvoted when it comes to that foul fruit.

Tomorrow night I might be keeping B company in a hospital ward, or they may send me home. Whatever happens, we are in for interesting times.

Dear Sir/madam,

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By the end of the course you will be an expert in communicating with muddles via a range of media, such as email, and current affairs and late-night television.

Some of our notable alumni include:

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To join this prestigious list all you have to do is reply to this email with a copy of your bank details.

Kind regards,

Tom Marvelous Riddle
Askforaspamban

In around 4 - 5 billion years time the Sun will expand and engulf the Earth. How do we survive?

NewScientist has an interesting article entitled Moving the Earth: a planetary survival guide. They propose two possible methods to move the Earth away from the Sun's expanded surface: gradual nudges to the Earth's orbit through flybys of icy Kuiper belt objects or with a giant solar sail.

For some background and references on the future of life on Earth read my essay 4 billion years AD (pdf).

We decided that Alex should have a Chinese middle name to represent that side of his heritage, as suggested by B's mother. As neither of us can read most Chinese characters we have had to rely on translation and romanisation tools to assist us in determining the correct spelling for the name.

The following tools are pretty useful:

• Convert Chinese characters to pinyin with English meanings
• Mandarin and Cantonese translator (Learn Cantonese site)
• Cantonese dictionary
  
• Kanji (Japanese) to hiragana and romaji
  

This was the trip that changed everything, the trip by which all future overseas journeys were measured.

After a couple of horrible flights during my second overseas holiday to Malaysia in early 2000, I doubted whether I really wanted to travel overseas again. However, B was adamant that she wanted a honeymoon overseas and how could I deny my true love her dream wedding?

We thought about Los Angeles, holiday packages to Disneyland were reasonably priced. But where was the romance in that? New Zealand was reasonably priced and reputedly beautiful, but it was so close! Surely we could visit it later.

Where could be more romantic for a honeymoon than the city of love: Paris?

We found an excellent deal with Qantas and, amidst the myriad other wedding preparations, booked it. Through Qantas Travel, their headquarters at the time just opposite my previous place of work, we arranged a hotel room, a tour to Mont St Michel and some museum and travel passes.

Now we usually book everything ourselves, scouring the internet and guidebooks for descriptions and the best deals. But there was something fun about putting our holiday together out of a single brochure, a single photograph and brief description all that you know about your hotel or tour.

B purchased our very first Lonely Planet, a pocket guide of Paris. I borrowed books from the library, though with all else that was happening there was little time to read them. We bought new bags rather than borrow unwieldy suitcases.

A couple of issues worried me between the time of booking and of departure. Our hotel was located in the Pigalle, Paris' red light district. Was it safe? My French friends at work assured me that it was. Then the terrorism events of September 11 happened. Was it safe to fly? I worried, but B did not, and in the end it worked to our advantage, frightening off many other tourists who would otherwise crowd the Parisian sights.
Saturday - The WeddingThe honeymoon began the moment we stepped into the stretched Rolls Royce that awaited us outside our reception at the Imperial Harbourside at Circular Quay. Finally, after a long, long day of ceremonies and celebrations we could relax. As B dozed I gazed outwards, taking in every last moment of this wonderful day.

The late night activity and drinking of The Rocks was soon replaced by solitude as we left the city and drove out along the Eastern Distributor, with only streetlights flashing past and the odd car for company. The land outside was asleep. We passed through the tunnel and under the runway from which we would take-off on our honeymoon. No aircraft crossed overhead, the airport closed by the noise curfew. The limousine emerged to be greeted by the dark, calm waters of Botany Bay, and soon we had arrived at the hotel.

A bath in the hot spa, to wash away the long, long day, then it was time for bed.
SundayThe Novotel Brighton Beach is a semi-ziggurat that overlooks the calm waters of Botany Bay. From our room we could see the city skyline in the distance, watch the flights rise and fall at the airport, the kitesurfers out on the bay. Yes, the are industrial views in the distance, over the Norfolk Island pines and flat beaches, but I like the combination of human activity and nature.

Below us was a Balinese waterfall and pond, the outdoor swimming pool with its waterslide and deckchairs. A resort surrounded by suburbia.

We woke into our spacious honeymoon suite with a sense of serenity. After a year of preparations, of celebrations and speeches, after hours of posing for photographs in uncomfortable clothes, of aching faces from a ay of smiling with genuine joy, it was time to relax.

But first things first. I had to take a lift downstairs to the little convenience store to buy B a pair of nail clippers.

On the night before our wedding I had received a distressed phone call from my soon-to-be wife. She hated her artificial fingernails. She normally wears her nails short, but these long claws prevented her from doing so many everyday tasks. As soon as the wedding was over they had to come off!

My first orders followed as a husband, it was time to go down for breakfast. Brides usually eat little during the reception and the hot buffet breakfast was much appreciated. We sat by a sunny window overlooking bay waters glimmering silver and blue in the morning light. It was wonderful to just, chat and eat without a care in the world.

B's brother came to visit us later, bringing some forgotten items and taking unneeded clothes away. I didn't want to see any family or friends, just wanted to enjoy this quiet, relaxed time together away from shrieking aunts and crazy cousins.

When the late check-out time finally approached we left our bags at the counter and wandered out to the beach. We lay on the grass under a mostly sunny blue sky watching the aeroplanes descend across the bay while eating chocolate dipped strawberries and slices of our chocolate wedding cake, sharing an apple gelato. For the first time there was no last minute rush to pack for the trip, no hurry to reach the airport. We were utterly relaxed.

Eventually it was time to catch the minbus shuttle to the airport. We had plenty of time to wait until our flight departed so we just sat around in the terminal and enjoyed each other's company. I hoped that I wouldn't get airsick on the flight ahead. At more than twice the length of the previous flight to Malaysia it was going to be agony. At least there was a break midway.

We boarded the massive 747-400 through the front door of the aircraft and made our way down to our blue fabric seats on the right hand side. I took the window seat, B next to me, with an older lady to her left in the aisle seat.

The cabin door was closed and we trundled away from the terminal. As we taxied out to the runway I could see our hotel in the distance. The hum of the engines and the gentle motion along the tarmac lulled me into turpitude. I immediately returned to alertness as we were pushed back into our seats by the application of full thrust. Then we were away, lifting off into the gold and blue evening skies above Sydney.

Even as we were still rising the crew were up and about serving snacks and drinks. B soon fell asleep on my arm, for she is an expert sleeper. I am the opposite and if previous flights were anything to go by I would be lucky to grab short, disturbed naps as we cruised along. The skies outside the window were cloudy, so I took out my French books and attempted cram some more of the language into my skull by writing a letter describing our wedding to a French friend. I was not very successful, still too dazed by the past day's events to focus my attention.

Eventually, the cloud cleared and I could see the red desolate beauty of the inland Australian desert. B woke up for the start of the inflight entertainment. The aircraft had not yet been upgraded with personal seatback systems, so instead we watched movies projected on to screens at the centre of the aircraft.
In some ways this shared entertainment was a good thing because it allowed the entire cabin, and especially my wife, to enjoy the movies together. I have since flown in both IFE and otherwise equipped aircraft, but the latter have all had tiny screens rather than a big centre projector and weren't as fun as this Qantas flight.

"Legally Blonde" was suitably fluffy. "One Night at McCool's" was just weird - I was half asleep for that one. Dinner came and went, then cabin lights dimmed.

The lights weren't switched on again until we approached Bangkok. Looking down, the city still appeared very much alive at 11pm. Neon lights mingled with headlamps as pedestrians scampered between the stalls of night markets. It was a bit like flying into Kuala Lumpur again. I love flying over these busy Asian cities at night, for there is so much to see.

We stumbled, bleary eyed, into the heat and humidity of Bangkok's Don Muang International Airport, our body clocks believing that it was 3am. The airport was quite clean, though the brown, cream and yellow did not help the impression. The souvenir, food and duty-free stalls and shops were still very active. Shiny metal statues and jewelery, colourful silks and carved wood. Stalls along the passageways sold interesting looking snacks. It was fascinating to browse through, but not tempting enough to bother exchanging dollars for baht and we were a little wary of food poisoning, seeing as our holiday still lay ahead.

Our heads wanted to keep sleeping, but our legs enjoyed a little exercising. Still, it was a bit of a relief to be called for boarding. Nine hours and no sign of airsickness! Only 12 hours 20 minutes to our next stop in London.

I was wrong about the 12 hours. Soon after we had taxied away from the embarkation gate a warning light was displayed in the cockpit. As we sat there waiting for the system to be checked I drifted off to sleep. A couple of hours later they still had not found the problem, so the entertainment system was activated and we were shown a movie unfit for a honeymoon. No, it wasn't "War of the Roses", but instead starred Hugh Grant and Colin Firth. "Bridget Jones' Diary" started B's obsession with the latter actor. Not fair!

I would have sworn that we only spent a couple of hours on the ground instead of the four hours shown by my watch. It all disappeared so smoothly that I did not even mind the delay. Again, thanks Qantas!
MondaySoon after we took off the staff enforced a lights off, window blinds closed policy. With no more movies to watch and unable even to look out the window I settled into a restless sleep, unlike Beatrice who snoozed besides me, waking only to shake legs suffering pins and needles. The cabin crew made regular trips through the aisles dispensing water to ward off dehydration and Deep Vein Thrombosis, an issue recently made popular at the time by the press.

The movie screen showed our position in the world with a regularly updated map. I could see the barest outline of sunlight through the portal, but the attendants insisted on keeping it shut, I guess to help passengers ease through the time zones. Finally, while over Armenia we were allowed the lights were switched back on and the shutters opened. Below was a mountainous landscape almost bare of vegetation, very different to anything we had seen before. The were the odd signs of human habitation, but life in the snow topped mountain ranges looked very harsh.

As we ate a breakfast prepared in Thailand, omelette, fruits and the first yoghurt I have tasted that was actually somewhat pleasant, the plane moved across the Black Sea and Turkey. Austria's Alps were coated with green meadows, while Germany and the Benelux showed more signs of industrialisation. My eyes were glued out the window the entire way.

In a short time we were crossing the English Channel and flying over the mouth of the Thames and onwards across London. There was a fleeting similarity to the computer generated landscapes of Microsoft Flight Simulator of so many years ago, but this scene was fully textured with the age of the city below us. So many recognisable landmarks, Big Ben, the Tower Bridge, the London Eye and many more. Rows of terrace houses forming spiral walls enclosing narrow streets. It was both new, so different to an Australian city, yet familiar from a heritage of British TV and books in my childhood.

Our twelve and a half hour long distance journey must have given our flight some sort of priority as, despite our late arrival, we were not placed in a holding pattern above busy Heathrow. It was a long taxi to the arrivals gate, past aircraft in liveries unseen in Australia. I laughed at the not so subtle anti-British Airways messages on the Virgin Atlantic aircraft, while listening to "Summer Rain" playing over the entertainment system, a song which seems to pop up at seminal points in my life. The strange thing was, the skies over London were actually quite clear and certainly free of rain!

We said goodbye to the third passenger in our row of seats, an ex-Welsh Guards soldier, now a management consultant who was divorcing his wife for an Australian girlfriend. Despite his planned move to Australia, he seemed happy to be back in his home country. Legs weak and uncoordinated through lack of use, we walked out of the aircraft that had been our home for 26 hours and into Heathrow terminal. I have to admit that I felt a little sad to be leaving the plane, for, despite the delay, it had been a fantastic and surprisingly comfortable flight.

Due to the delay in Bangkok and our consequent very late arrival in London we had missed our connecting flight to Paris. The British Airways staff rebooked us on a later flight, but in the meantime we had an hour and bit to waste in the airport terminal. The Harrods store was decked out in Christmas decorations (it was November!), but the British Museum shop goods were more interesting. Again, the time spent in the airport did not warrant us changing any of our Dollars to Pounds. We could always get a snack in Paris, or so we thought.

The British Airways Airbus A319 to Paris was rather spartan compared with the 747 we had arrived on. The plane was full, the passengers all French so far as I could tell, and Beatrice and I were placed in nonadjacent seats. One male passenger was trying to get me to do something and seemed quite unhappy that I couldn't understand his French. Well sorry, but after 26 hours in a plane and very little sleep my knowledge of the French language was impossible to retrieve! Besides which, we were in a British plane on British soil, so I didn't feel morally wrong (I always try to speak the local language and respect local culture as much as possible when overseas).

It turned out that all he wanted to do was swap seats, so I was able to sit with my wife (and he with his wife I think)! That was nice of them, and indeed our subsequent encounters with the French were nothing like the arrogant stereotypes they are too often made out to be.

The airline meal was our first taste of things to come in aviation for short distance flights - stale turkey sandwiches and fruit juice served in a paper bag. Qantas dropped hot food from their short distance menus shortly afterwards. At least it was food, because by this time we were hungry.

The flight was short enough that we barely had time to get to cruising altitude. As we descended to Charles de Gaulle airport we skimmed over perfect square fields and tiny villages. What struck me most was the short distances between the villages and the number of them that punctuated the landscape. In Australia there would be a single, larger, country town, but a much greater distance between it and the next town.

Finally, finally, we touched down on French soil. We had made it, and with NO airsickness. We looked forward to a hot shower and soft bed and whatever French stuff we could see in between.

We raced through the terminal corridors to retrieve our luggage. We waited at the rotunda, and waited. A camouflaged member of the paramilitary waited nearby, a concession to the recent terrorist actions. Still no bag after half and hour. We wandered over to the BA counter, only to be told that, in the rush caused by the delay of the Qantas flight, our bags had been placed on a later flight. They gave us a voucher for refreshments, a note to show security, and told us to return in an hour or so.

I remember seeing photographs of Terminal 1 of Charles de Gaulle Airport back when I was five or six years old. The cylindrical concrete interior looked very architecturally fashionable then. Unfortunately, the terminal was a huge disappointment (this is before the huge new terminal, remember). All stark grey-brown rough concrete and dark. It was the ugliest terminal that we had yet been inside. The shopping and food was just as bad. Our voucher was only for a drink, and the drink we selected was not very nice. It's easy to get lost in the circles, security gates and confusing lifts. Bored, and very weary we wandered back and waited again for the luggage to appear on the rotunda.

To be fair, at least it had a unique character in comparison to the clean steel and glass of more modern terminals and I now feel a sense of nostalgia for Terminal 1.

Eventually the big brown backpack appeared, followed by the smaller olive green bag. We picked them up, cleared customs and found our way out of the terminal and to the transfer bus that would take us to the station. There we took the easy way out and just used our prepaid Visite Transit passes to pass through the gates - once the attendant showed us how. Maybe it was a waste of money, but we were too tired to work out buying all the tickets.

The yellow electric passenger train soon arrived and somehow we managed to squeeze our bags on board what was essentially an everyday commuter train. We passed autumn yellow birch trees above bright green grass before entering the outskirts of Paris.

As we neared the centre of the city the dirty greys and browns of the structures silhouetted against a darkening gold evening sky evoked a sense of the age of a city much older than any in Australia. Memories of leafing through old European model railway catalogues were triggered by the other locomotives and rollingstock on the lines besides us. Despite the exhaustion of the flight I was excited to the core.

At Gare du Nord we had to change to one of the metro lines. This involved running up and down stairs and through long tunnels (the Paris Metro system is great for its coverage, but awful for changing lines) while lugging bags that seemed to increase with weight at each step. Our first metro journey was one station long; Gare du Nord to Barbes-Rochechouart. From the elevated platform, we rushed down to the underground line to the Pigalle. Tried to rush, but with two big bags hanging off me I got caught in one of the narrow gates and it wouldn't let me try again. I eventually got out through an alternative gate and rejoined Beatrice.

Two stops later we arrived in the Pigalle. The light was fading, the streets narrow and joined at odd angles and we were exhausted and confused. After wandering around and retracing steps we found the Hotel Victor Masse. Thankfully, the owners spoke some English because I couldn't manage much more than a "bonjour".

Our room was on the top floor, a slow ride in a rickety elevator and then up a tight flight of stairs to the next level. When we opened the door, our first thought was "how small"! The double bed (at least it wasn't two singles, as is apparently common) took up most of the room, a tiny TV mounted just below the ceiling, connected to the sole power outlet. The shower and toilet cubicle was impossibly cramped and the shower often overflowed. The heating never seemed sufficient. However, the bright yellow decore and sloping attic room gave the room a lovely quaintness that was appropriate for honeymoon accommodation and there were no complaints about cleanliness. Worth A$150 per night for two? Not by Australian standards, but we weren't in Australia now.

After setting our bags down and calling home, we decided to rest a little before heading out for dinner.

The next thing we knew it was 10pm. A hot shower later, we realised that, despite a little hunger, we didn't have the energy to find a place to eat at this late hour. So, back to bed and a long sleep for our first night in Paris.
TuesdayAfter a long and refreshing sleep we woke early to the sound of street sweepers and a city just beginning to rise for a day of work. This was the first time that we had visited a country where neither of us spoke the language or understood the local culture with any proficiency. We planned to introduce ourselves slowly to Paris, started with a walk around our local area through to the Montmartre district.

First things first, however, and that was some food! Our first French meal was easy, a simple breakfast of bread rolls and croissants in the hotel.

Between our hotel and the Boulevard de Clichy the sex shops were just cleaning up after a night’s trade. Baz Luhrman’s movie Moulin Rouge had recently been released in Australian cinemas, but its namesake looked thoroughly unimpressive in the grey morning light.



We were following a path from the Time Out Book of Paris Walks that I had borrowed from our local library. After walking to the end of Boulevard de Clichy we turned right into Rue Caulaincourt and began a long hunt for the entrance to our first “sight”, the Cimetiere de Montmartre. Finally locating it, we spent some time wandering around the green and leafy cemetery filled with impressive vaults and statues. Like miniature cathedrals, some vaults even had stained glass windows and spires.


On our way out we passed a pet store with a name like “Dog Toilette”. Well, it certainly stank like a toilet inside.

The Montmartre is the hill of the Martyrs and is the highest point of Paris. The walk up to the top is along steep cobblestone streets turned into canyons by the tall old apartment blocks. It felt like a walk through history, so different to anywhere we had visited before, yet there was also a sense of familiarity, of a genetic memory of Europe.

We climbed up the steps, past the old windmill and last vineyard of Paris. The grey clouds began to shed rain and we looked for shelter. Fortunately, the Espace Dali was nearby, and so began our introduction into Salvador Dali’s fantastically warped imagination. Giant snails, elephants on stilt legs, molten clocks and so much more were on display inside.

It was not far from the Dali Museum to the Place de Terte, the famous cobblestone square where artists hawk their works to the hordes of tourists. We were starving by this stage, but all the food outlets were undoubtedly oriented at the tourist. No choice! We sat down under the shelter of a red and white awning of a café overlooking the square, warmed by a gas heaters, and ordered a ham and cheese pizza and a crepe.


Our fears of poor food were blown away. The food was so rich in flavor and the hot chocolate was the best ever tasted.

The white huge Basilique du Sacre Coeur overlooks all of Paris from its position atop the Montmartre. We were excited to catch our first glimpse of the Eiffel Tower and the urban canyons of Paris from our vantage point. We didn’t make it up to the top of the Sacre Coeur but we did wander around the interior.


Following the steps down from the Sacre Coeur we found ourselves in an area of shops selling rich and ornate fabrics. B was very excited by this, but the choices were overwhelming.


Our next objective was actually to be shopping in the great department stores of Paris, Printempts and Galeries Lafayette. So we wandered through the narrow streets until we came to the Church of St Trinite (which I actually thought was Opera).

Galeries Lafayette was decked out with Christmas lights, a giant tree rising up through its ornate central circle. Seven levels of shopping and nowhere to sit. My legs were in agony while B wandered through rows of clothing and housewares too expensive to purchase.

It was dark outside by the time we escaped. We were hungry, but as we walked back towards our hotel we couldn’t find anywhere to eat in this culinary capital. We popped into a small supermarket, purchased some snacks and a bottle of spearmint flavoured softdrink(!), but we needed something more substantial. Up past the Chinese restaurants near Abbesses we walked until we came to a trendy looking little café. There I had my first taste of fried goats cheese in a citrus sauce while B had chicken in a cream sauce.

By the time we returned to our hotel we were absolutely exhausted.Wednesday
Our internal body clocks were not running on Parisian time yet, so we couldn’t help by wake early. Our first stop for the day was to see the Cathedral of Notre Dame. We caught the metro down to the Ile de Cite, but were too early so ended up walking back across the River Seine to the Right Bank. There we wandered past the flower sellers and pet shops beside the river, then back into some of the trendy clothes stores near the Rue de Rivoli, before returning to the Cathedral. On the way we stopped for our one and only baguette of our time in Paris.


Our Paris museum passes included a tour of the Notre Dame, but not unusually there was a strike on and all tours were free. We joined the group and began our long ascent up the narrow spiral staircase of the north tower.

Despite the effort, the view was absolutely worth it. Looking back we could see yesterday’s location of the Sacre Coeur, then across to the Eiffel Tower and all the interesting sights in between. More exciting still were the giant stone gargoyles that decorated the edges of the Church. It was like being in a forest of weird monsters.


The high vaulted interior of the Notre Dame was lit by the multicoloured beams of sunlight passing through the huge stained glass windows.

We walked upriver to the Ile St Louise, stopping to purchase a couple of silk cushion covers printed with colourful works of Van Gogh. Following the recommendations of our Lonely Planet guide we decided to try a menu du jour – a three course standard set – and left feeling very, very full. I did love the food, however, so it was a good feeling.

We decided to walk back via the left bank and through the student quarter. The students were obviously protesting about something, so we didn’t go too deep into the area. Instead we walked along the Seine until we reached the Pont-Neuf, the oldest bridge across the Seine. It was raining again, but our objective was indoors, the massive Louvre.

The sun was setting as we stepped into IM Pei’s glass pyramid entrance, but it was Wednesday so the gallery was open until late. We were determined to make the best use of our time possible, so had planned our visits to sights to coincide with late openings. Our pass allowed us to bypass the long queues.


I wasn’t in the best of moods at the Louvre. Maybe it was a bit of jet lag and both our legs were exhausted from a day of stairs and walking. Still, it was impossible not to be impressed by the art works and statues on display. Some huge canvases were more than twice the height of person, depicting grandiose events from history and imagination. In comparison the Mona Lisa was insubstantial, but at least we managed a clear look without the crowds. The hallways of statues were more human scale, though sometimes representing creatures of myth.



We wandered the Louvre until closing time. The gallery is so huge that a day would not be enough to take everything in, but our three hours had been well worth it. Still, it was not the end of the day for our exploration. There was one more museum to see.

Close by to our hotel and open until the early hours of the morning was the Musee de l’Erotisme, the Museum of Eroticism. The seven floors of sexual objects and art works from across history was a highly amusing (and stimulating?) way to end a very full day.ThursdayAnother day, another set of stairs. Thankfully our visit to the Arc d’Triomphe did not involve crossing the roundabout. One could spend hours there watching the cars attempt to enter and leave the crazy unmarked rotunda.
It was sunny when we emerged from our underground metro station and climbed up to the museum inside the arch. But as we stood atop the arch, the convergent focus of wide boulevards from across the city, a dark cloud suddenly approached and it actually began snowing! Then it was gone, leaving a rainbow and a clear blue sky.



Enjoying the Sun, we took a long stroll down the Champs Elysee, past shops of luxuries that were beyond both our finances and, truth be told, our desire. We passed by parks where the trees were shedding autumn leaves, past the Louvre again until we arrived at the Samaritaine department store. One of my colleagues had told me that you could get a good free view of the city from up there, so that is what we did, allowing B to do some shopping at the same time.


As darkness fell we wandered through trendy Marais, window shopping at strange homewares and gay fashions. We had a delicious candlelit meal at a café beside the carnival-like fountain in front of the Centre Pompidou, before entering the gallery of modern arts.


The highly abstract displays didn’t capture our imaginations as much as the Louvre did the day before, but it was interesting. And wherever we found a spot to sit, that is what we did, for our legs were as tired as the day before. And when we arrived back in our hotel room, walking past those sleazy bars with prostitutes silhouetted in the windows, we were glad to sleep.FridayAt last it was time to visit that most famous French landmark, the Eiffel Tower. I had always thought that the tower was red in colour. The steel structure is, in fact, brown, but what is not disputed is its visual impact over the city. It is difficult to believe that authorities once wanted to tear the tower down as an eyesore. Fortunately, Eiffel’s structure proved to be eminently suitable for a new use – the transmission of telecommunications signals. Now it is difficult to imagine the city without its most prominent landmark.


Prior to reaching the tower we made a short detour. In the rush before the wedding I had not organized to pre-vote in the upcoming Australian election. I saved myself an explanation to the electoral office by popping into the Australian Embassy, a scant couple of hundred metres away from our destination. Fifteen minutes later we were on our way.

We had been warned to expect huge queues to catch the lifts up the tower. Obviously the combination of the recent terrorist events with the season had scared many potential tourists away. There we still crowds, camouflaged soldiers with automatic weapons, and most annoyingly of all, African postcard touts.

During our week in Paris we had climbed up to many vantage points with views across the city. None were as spectacular as the views from atop the Eiffel Tower, a sense of being suspended above this city of monuments. It’s worth doing, at least once in a lifetime, whatever the wait.


Back on the ground we wandered along besides the Seine before B decided that she wanted to do more shopping. So it was back on the Metro to the department stores. It’s amazing how even window shopping can suck so much time from a day. When we got out of Printemps it was dark and we were hungry for dinner.

Rather than hunt for restaurants we decided to treat ourselves to an expensive meal at the Royal Trinite restaurant opposite the church. It looked very posh inside and the other clientele were far better dressed than the two of us, but we were treated with friendly politeness by the staff. B felt obliged to try an entrée of escargot, or snails as they are known here. As a rule, I do not eats molluscs of any sort, be they oysters, octopus or calamari, but I did have a taste. Chewy, with a bitter aftertaste, though the garlic butter sauce was nice.

For the first time since our arrival in Paris we actually returned to our hotel before 10pm. But that was only because of the long day to come.SaturdayThere is much more to France than just Paris and despite our short stay we wanted to see something of the country outside of its capital city.

Leafing through the Qantas Holidays brochure we felt inspired to visit the Cathedral and Abbey on Mont St Michel in Normandy and so we booked a day tour to the site.
When I say a day tour, I mean a very full day tour. We left our hotel in the early morning darkness and hurriedly walked the quiet streets to the departure spot. There we met the tour leaders and piled into the coach.

There were two tour guides, both French ladies. One gave commentary in Japanese, the other in English. When the latter spoke she emphasized every syllable of the names and locations with a pause in between each, so Normandy became Nor-Man-Dy.

After taking our first ride through the streets of Paris the coach turned out on to a motorway and past the royal forests near Versaille. I’m not a huge fan of boring motorways so I was delighted when an accident ahead of us closed the route and forced us to detour along narrow roads and through historic towns instead. The ivy-lined stone shops and houses, the cobblestone streets, made me want to stop and explore further. I resolved to return one day to explore the French countryside.

Back on the main roads again, the coach pulled into a service station/roadhouse on the outskirts of a town for a toilet stop and to allow passengers to grab some snacks. I doubt if many had a chance to eat breakfast before setting out and we were certainly hungry.

As the bus rolled along the guides explained the history of Normandy, from the invasions of the English and Joan of Arc to the D-Day invasions and the battles of the hedgerows that had destroyed so much of the region’s historic architecture. But amongst the recitations there were long periods of silence. After standing, walking, climbing up stairs, virtually every waking moment since our arrival in Paris this opportunity to sit back and watch the world pass by was much welcomed by both of us.

While B slept I finally had a chance to listed to some music on my portable CD player: Jerry Goldsmith’s soundtrack to the 13th Warrior. Interestingly, it was one of the movies I had watched during my last overseas flight, to Malaysia.

I was very excited to catch my first glimpse of the spires of Mont Saint Michel above the flat pastureland of Normandy. It was like viewing the serene backdrop of a religious portrait, always more interesting to me than the subjects themselves. The small conical island and structure stood out across the landscape.

Before crossing to Mont Saint Michel we stopped at the nearby Relais Saint Michel hotel and restaurant for lunch. Our entrée was a very fluffy omelet, one of the region’s signature dishes. One of the annoying older Americans whinged that it was undercooked, but I really enjoyed mine. The American further annoyed me by stating loudly to an Israeli passenger that after 9-11 she now knew what it was like for Israelis. Except, of course, that she was from a location far away from New York.

Sated after a very large lunch, we took photos across the paddocks with the Mont in the background, before piling back on the coach for the short ride across the causeway to the island.


Mont Saint Michel was initially a Benedictine Abbey, before being converted into a prison during the French Revolution. One remaining sign of the latter use is a giant human powered “hamster wheel” used to lift supplies up to the prison from the base of the island. Surrounding the island are treacherous tidal mudflats where quicksand lies in wait. The walls of the monastery are manmade cliffs and it is difficult to imagine trying to escape from them.


We were taken on a guided tour of the monastery and it was back to walking up endless steps once more as we followed the guide up three levels of the monastery. As we climbed higher the architecture of the buildings changed, with Gothic, Romanesque and Neo-Gothic chambers. There are halls where great cooking fires were lit, and a beautifully peaceful cloister. It was a fantastic introduction to Christian historical religious architecture that would inform us on future trips through Europe.


The monastery and surrounding town at the base of the island was both grandiose and picturesque, though rather touristy and expensive. Still, Mont Saint Michel was definitely worth the visit and made us want to see more outside the capital.


The light was fading as we left Mont Saint Michel for our return to Paris. In darkness we pulled into our final stop, the Memorial for Peace in Caen. The city had been destroyed by the aftermath of the D-Day landings and the massive memorial houses a museum dedicated to 20th Century War and its consequences. We ate a cold buffet dinner under the watchful gaze of a replica Typhoon fighter, then wandered around the exhibits in the time remaining.


The journey back to Paris was peaceful, the occupants of the bus exhausted from a very long day.SundayRemembrance Day. We were too exhausted from the previous very long day to wake early for the parade down the Champs Elysee. By the time we stepped out on to Paris’s most famous road the shops were open again, the crowds dispersed and the marching soldiers long gone. It was back to Sephora for more cosmetics, and to search again along the Rue de Rivoli for shoes and clothing for B. After all the sightseeing that we had done, this was her chance for some retail therapy.

Paris is famous for its antique and bric-a-brac markets and that morning we had caught the metro all the way up to Porte de Clignancourt to check out the Marche aux Puces de St-Ouen. It was big, confusing, noisy and we just felt uncomfortable there. Our brief exploration uncovered nothing of particular interest, so we decided to head back down to the serious shopping district and the aftermath of the Remembrance Day parades.MondayOur last day in Paris. Our flight back to London and Sydney departed late in the day, so after checking out we left our bags in the keeping of the hotel. My friend had labeled the Roman ruins of the Arenes de Lutece as a must see, so we travelled down to the Latin Quarter, the student district. The ruins were closed, but we wandered around the area, even saw a student disturbance with accompanying police presence.

It didn’t feel right to end our time in Paris here. We both agreed that it was the Montmartre that we wanted to see again, so we hopped on a north bound metro. The clock was ticking, but we were determined to make it.

We raced up to the Place du Terte, gazed over the city one last time, then it was down on the funicular and to the Place des Abbesses. B desperately wanted to purchase curtains, but there was no time! We were puffing as we reached our hotel and collected the bags, then carried them, heavier now than when we arrived, back down through the long passageways of the Metro stations and on to the train to the airport.


After checking in, we were left with plenty of time to wander the airport. The circular Terminal 1 building of Charles de Gaulle airport is particularly confusing. Somehow we found the tax refund office, and despite us already checking in the goods, they processed our refund.

We passed through security and into the grey concrete zone. Disappointingly we found little to do inside, with only a couple of poor quality eateries, a small dingy supermarket and clothing boutique.

By the time our flight was called, we were ready to leave the airport, but sad to say goodbye to Paris.Tuesday/WednesdayThe flight home was much less memorable than the outbound journey, though it was still pleasant. We arrived home on Wednesday morning absolutely exhausted and spent most of the day asleep in bed.

Now we had had a taste of Paris, a taste of Europe, and it was not enough. Paris had changed my outlook on travel and on life. Suddenly, civilized Australia seemed too young. The houses of Sydney lacked the mysteries, the stories of those Parisian apartments. Our next trip was to Melbourne, the most European of the Australian capitals, because we hoped to recapture some of that Parisian magic. And now I knew that I could fly and enjoy it, that we could cope on our own with a new culture and language. The international travel bug had bitten and I was now an addict.

A selection of photos

Realising that this would probably be the last anniversary for a long time that we could spend alone as a couple B and I stayed Sunday night in a hotel at Brighton Le Sands. The Novotel Brighton Beach has a pretty poor reputation amongst my work colleagues, but it was there that B and I spent our wedding night. That time, along with our subsequent visits, have always been enjoyable experiences. Indeed we have a great fondness for the beaches around Botany Bay.

I will admit that one of the attractions for me is that Sydney's major airport juts out into the bay's otherwise serene waters and I can watch and dream as the big jets fly over the bay.



Our hotel room was high up on the cornered ziggurat building, overlooking the bay, the airport and the city. Sadly the hotel had changed since our last stay. The large Balinese-style decorative pool and waterfall had gone, converted into additional outdoor bar seating. So too has the waterslide disappeared, now a children's playground. I had loved both.


Then


Now

When we had arrived late in the afternoon I was already a little disappointed. The hot days of the past fortnight had been replaced by a cool and dreary overcast day. Nothing weather, I thought.

However, there was champagne (untouched) and chocolate dipped strawberries waiting in our room in celebration of our anniversary. And the low clouds lifted, revealing a more interesting cloudscape better for silhouetting the beach and the aircraft.

As a weary B slept in the soft, soft bed I sat on the balcony and watched the activity outside. Through my binoculars, a wedding present, I could see planespotters crowding around the runway fence.

Watching those aircraft take-off and land wasn't about the actual aircraft themselves. It was about the adventures they represented, the memories and dreams. Seven years ago one of those Qantas 747's had flown us across to London en route to our honeymoon in Paris, to Tokyo and Singapore later on. Staring in through those portholes, listening to the roar of the engines as it gathers speed down the runway, I was inside the aircraft once more, setting off on another journey.

As evening fell B was too tired to walk, so I set off alone along the beach. It was wonderful to feel the sand beneath my feet, to watch the wading birds frolic in the shallows. I saw long thin worms leaving squiggles in the damp sand, felt squeamish. Windsurfers raced along the bay. The path to the mouth of the Cooks River was blocked by the construction site for the new desalination plant pipeline under the bay.



I had already walked quite a few kilometres earlier in the day as I sought to tire Kita out along the Still Creek firetrail near our house. Poor Kita was left to guard the house in our absence, but he was too exhausted to care.

Upon my return to the hotel we treated ourselves to a fine dinner in a nearby restaurant. The hotel's room service menu also looked delicious, better than their actual restaurant. Our dessert was gelato from the shop beneath the hotel. Green apple gelato, just like on our honeymoon.

Early mornings are my favourite time at Brighton Le Sands. The morning Sun shimmers across the calm waters against a hazy golden grey backdrop, it is a beautiful sight. I stepped out on to the balcony just in time to watch an A380 land over the water.



While B continued to sleep I went down for a dip in the hotel spa. I'm not certain that I would have risked the cold waters of the swimming pool had it not been closed for cleaning.

The big buffet breakfast was unfortunately rushed due to an appointment at the hospital. I love these hotel breakfasts, but they are best enjoyed over multiple mornings so that you can sample the choices properly, rather than feeling the need to try everything. A sit down breakfast together is such a rare event on weekdays that it is to be savoured.

I felt so calm after our stay, so relaxed. In my ideal journey I would stay the night there before setting off on a journey overseas late in the day. Watching the other aircraft take-off would set me in the mood, while relaxing in the pool and walking on the beach produces a sense of contentment that makes the start of the journey so much more enjoyable. I look forward to sharing it with our child.

Behind me, on the Japanese noren curtain, the petals of cherry blossoms gently drift to the ground. In front of me a model Narita Express runs past a Shinto temple. Diecast jet aircraft are poised in front of carp streamers to leap off the desk and across the ocean. Above me, posters for Le Chat Noir and the Moulin de la Galette stand astride a black and white photograph of the bridges of Paris.

The reminders of holidays past and dreams of journeys to come surround me in the house. Each time we travel we bring back mementos of the journey. Today I was sorting through bags of brochures, maps and tickets, each bag a separate trip, filing and tossing.

The maps and guides to cities and sights are useful future references, but it is the little items that stir the memories. Business cards of a Tokyo hairdresser, tickets for the awful train ride from Yichang to Nanjing, the little cards of directions to the Chinese hotels for the taxi drivers, menu cards and boarding passes for flights, an travel agent printed itinerary for a European holiday. These bring tears to my eyes as I remember.

News stories tell of aircraft dropping hundreds of meters mid-flight. I think of my last flight back from Canberra and the thought of sitting through another turbulent flights fills me with dread. Then a screensaver photograph, another memento, displays on my computer of a smooth flight above the clouds and I realise that, despite the bumps, there was peace and beauty up in those clouds.

Terrors and misfortunes fade with time and so we step out the door again, more experiences to be sought, more memories to be made.

I may not be racing around Europe right now, but I did go somewhere today. Yes, back to Canberra again. How exciting... Well, I would have liked to have seen Canberra, visited Floriade again, the War Memorial, but there was no time for that. Just another meeting at the headquarters.

I'm now officially tired of flying to Canberra. Tired of driving there as well. Despite the protestations of my work colleague, who claimed that the buses were far less dingy, I wanted to catch the train, but it was sold out. So I dutifully purchased the Qantas tickets online, ensuring that I was flying by jet.

The day outside looked magnificent, a scorcher, but the air was still. Fear lurked, because the weather reports forecast storms and winds in the afternoon. How unfair! The last two times I flew back from Canberra we passed through a storm and a front.

No sign of that as I stared out the windows of Terminal 3. I noticed the Qantas A380 sitting out on the tarmac and watched the movements of the other aircraft out of the window. My flight's boarding time was running late, so I had longer than expected to gaze out. Apparently, there was a lack of tower controllers, hence the delays.



We eventually boarded the Boeing 737-400, looking a little tired despite the new upholstery. I had booked seat 9A, hoping for a good view below. Unfortunately it was somewhat blocked by the engine.

As we taxied out to the runway the pilot warned us that there was a queue of aircraft waiting to take off. I looked behind us and could see a long line stretching back.



I was hoping to catch a glimpse of the Qantas A380 as we took off, but I couldn't see it. I did catch a glimpse of Singapore Airline's version. As we curved back out towards the ocean I could see Bondi Beach. I wondered how full it would get in the day's 35 degree heat.

The sky was mostly blue, though we shook a little as we passed through some cloud over the ocean. Then we emerged to cross back over the coast south of Wollongong. In the meantime we had been served a muesli bar and a choice of juice or water.



Sandstone cliff tops overlooking a river valley poked orange out of the dark green bush, forming interesting patterns below. Just as we reached cruise level it was over and our descent began. As we approached Canberra's airport the views over the Brindabella Ranges were magnificent, reminding me of walks out along the edge of Belconnen where I would stare across the Molongolo Valley and dream of faraway places. Unfortunately, the view was disrupted by the bumpy flight over the hills, as the gusts of wind shook the aircraft.



As I sat in the meeting room I watched the shadows of trees dancing with the gale outside. By the time I got to the airport in the evening I was worried. I could see a bank of clouds approaching and wished for us to quickly leave. But the flights were late again. This time due to weather in Sydney, a not very reassuring excuse. I was very tempted not to catch the flight, but to stay overnight and maybe bus back home the next day. B talked me out of it.



We finally taxied out on to the tarmac accompanied by clouds of dust thrown up by the wind. By now the cloud bank was across and into our bath, the dramatic shapes hinting at a wild ride above. I reassured myself that I was in an overwing seat, 13F, the most stable and that the actual flight time was only 25 minutes, only 25 minutes. Safe and smooth was my mantra.

Smooth it was not, as we lifted off into the gusty sky. We shook, dropped, jumped and slewed. Yet as we still approached the clouds the seatbelt sign went off and the cabin crew started serving meals. We skirted around the grey and white clouds for as long as we could. Despite my fear, the cloudscape was spectacular in the orange, blue and grey of evening.



After crossing one swirl below us and as we approached the main cloud bank, the captain relit the seatbelt sign and the meal service stopped for the rest of the flight, before it had reached me. Strangely, as soon as the seatbelt sign went on the flight became very smooth.

That cloud bank looked too high for us to surmount on the flight and I had a bad feeling that we were going to penetrate it, but no, we began our descent and flew under. It wasn't as rough as I feared, though it certainly wasn't pleasant.



The sun had set by the time we flew over Sydney's southern outskirts. The Lucas Heights reactor was below, the Heathcote. Out across the water again, then the last round of shaking began, but not so bad. I watched the lights of the ships, the refinery and the container docks as we sank down towards the runway. A bit of a hard landing, then it was over!

It wasn't as bad as I feared, but next time I'm taking the train.

Photos

A very cool 3D tour of the Qantas Airbus A380. Probably the closest I'll get to actually seeing the premium cabins!

We should be in Korea right now. An overnight stay near Incheon Airport, then a flight to Prague tomorrow. Twenty days later we would be flying out of Amsterdam and back through Seoul to Sydney.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it, that trip was cancelled. Poor B, with her bloated baby belly, is in no fit state to fly.

I could do with a holiday right now. This was to be our first trip to Eastern Europe and I was also looking forward to walking around the medieval towns of Bretagne in France.

Hopefully we'll have our chance next year, our child's first trip to another land. We'll just have to wait and see.

Over four years was to pass between my first and second trips overseas. This was to be a shorter holiday, both in time and distance travelled, accompanying B's mother and B back to Kuala Lumpur for a week.

I had not particularly enjoyed Kuala Lumpur the first time we had visited. It was hot and muggy, polluted and run down. However, apparently the city had been cleaned up for the 1998 Commonwealth Games, so I was interested in seeing how much it had changed. I also looked forward to the opportunity to sample more of the delights of Malaysia's hawker stalls!

The flights and hotel were organised through a cheap travel agent in Sydney's Chinatown. On the afternoon of Friday the 3 March 2000 we boarded our Malaysian Airlines 747 for the flight from Sydney to Kuala Lumpur's new international airport.

It was the first time that I had encountered a personal seatback inflight entertainment system. I watched Three Kings and The 13th Warrior on the tiny screen, played some SNES games without much skill. And as I always do, I gazed out to see the red deserts and occasional waterways of the Australian interior.

Despite the entertainment, I was not a happy passenger. As we got further into our journey I started to feel ill. The air seemed stuffy and I was starting to develop a bad headache. By the time we touched down I could barely hold myself together.

Once we were inside the shiny new airport terminal, thankfully airconditioned, I began to slowly feel a little better. We made our way out as quickly as possible and were met by our transfer driver from the hotel, cramming our bodies and luggage into his little van.

The ride from the airport to the hotel was visually interesting. KLIA is about 50 kilometers distant from the center of Kuala Lumpur and surrounded by palm plantations. The sight of the palm trees alongside the lonely motorway brought home the fact that we were now in another country. Eventually the quiet farmlands were replaced by grand new developments looming over the motorway, their red and blue neon sign adding to the amber streetlamps that had so far coloured our journey into the city.

We had booked to stay at the Fairlane Hotel, now known as the Coronade, located in Bukit Bintang, or Kuala Lumpur's "Golden Triangle". Our supposedly four star room was disappointingly tiny and I had to sleep on a fold up bed. But the hotel was still more luxurious than any I had stayed in before and I loved the view across the city, looking out across a sea of lights and activity.

Though it was 11pm and we had eaten on board our flight, B and her Mum were determined to find some hawker stalls. Still trying to recover from the headache I had no energy to join them and just wanted to lie down in the airconditioned room.

The next morning I was felt much better and ready to explore the streets of Kuala Lumpur. The first issue was breakfast. Throughout this trip there was conflict between myself and B's mother when it came to food. She (and often B as well) wanted to eat Chinese Malaysian food, often soup-style noodles. I, on the other hand, liked the Malay and Indian cuisines as well. This was sometimes solved by splitting up and each going to their own eating areas, the different nationalities rarely mixing.

Behind the hotel was a long tin shed containing Malay and Indian hawker stalls. There I would dine on roti canai with a cup of condensed milk sweetened Milo ice (iced Milo drink). Meanwhile, the other two would have walked up to Jalan Alor for their Chinese breakfast.



Kuala Lumpur had changed a lot since our previous visit. The footpaths were now properly delineated and the potholes had disappeared from the streets. There were now a couple of light rail lines, though they were poorly integrated. In the middle of Jalan Imbi stood the concrete pylons of a stalled monorail project. The city was dotted with new skyscrapers of magnificent Islamic-inspired design, though the poorer kampong-style shanties had not entirely disappeared.



The famous Petronas Twin Towers, at that time the tallest in the world, were off limits to tourists, but we did make it up KL Tower. Unfortunately, the view across the city was rather spoiled by the ever-present haze.

Much of our time was spent in the presence of family and friends of B's mother. Probably the highlight of our stay was when we visited Pulua Ketam, or Crab Island, with B's cousins, Ken, Sarah and the (now) three girls.

They picked us up from the hotel and we drove down to Port Klang. The harbourside was rundown, lined with factories with only the ferry terminal indicating anything of tourist interest. While I munched on some of my favourite coconut and peanut filled pancake kuih, Ken haggled for a boat across to the island.

He was soon in trouble with his wife. Rather than one of the big enclosed passenger ferries we would be riding across in a small open sampan. In a small way, I was glad of this because I couldn't imagine escaping from the ferry in case of an accident. That wouldn't be a problem in the long and thin sampan.

When the powerful outboard motor started up and we shot out across the dirty brown water I was terrified. The boatman had to angle the sampan to face the waves and the wake of the other boats or we would have been rolled. Each time we struck a wave it was like slamming into a solid wall. As we dodged around ships a hundred times our size I hoped that we would not end up in the fetid water.

Gradually we relaxed and began to enjoy the view. They chatted away to the boatman's young daughter, while Sarah and I tried to shade her newborn from the sun. We rode through mangrove lined channels and past prawn farms. Sitting in the middle of one channel was a Shell petrol station looking as if it had been flooded and the cars replaced by boats.

Pulua Ketam was amazing. The village was built entirely on stilts and was decorated in an ornate Chinese style. With wobbly legs we climbed out of the boat to explore the town.

It was pleasant to walk around a part of Malaysia where there were no crazy cars or scooters. The commercial area sat on a platform raised by stilts above the water. There were temples, warehouses and shops. Outside of one temple was a pond with carp and turtles. Surrounding the pond with rock walls like a model mountain with miniature temples and statues along the sides.

We ate a spicy lunch of local seafood at one of the restaurants and B relived memories of her childhood by going sweet shopping with the kids. Then it was back to the mainland on the very same boat. Before heading off, the boatman had to drop something off at his house, so we navigated through the canals until we reached his stilted abode, his daughter jumping off to drop the item off. I watched them throw rubbish directly into the same water that supplied them with their food, wandering if we really wanted to eat those prawns. The Malaysians tend to be a messy bunch, with little regard for their waste. It's as if they see no connections between their own actions and the state of the environment around them.

In the evening we drove to Kuala Selangor to view the fireflies. We sat in the silent electric boats drifting past bushes filled with tiny natural blinking lights. Unfortunately, the experience was spoiled by the vicious mosquitoes that were determined to drink every last drop of our blood.

Any terror felt on the boat ride to Pulua Ketam paled into insignificance when compared to the drive to Port Dickson. Malaysian drivers are bad at the best of times. If they see the smallest gap in the traffic then they will attempt to push in, to gain any advantage. You often see three lanes where only two can fit. Malaysians are more tolerant of poor driving than Sydney motorists.

I had sat in a car driven by B's Mum in Sydney and feared for my life as she didn't keep her lane or bother reading signs. Now I discovered that this was a trait shared by her friend as she drove us down the motorway in her little Kancil. The Kancil lacks safety features and we were on an open freeway with drivers ignoring speed limits. As Aunty didn't, or couldn't, read the street signs we often found ourselves turning off on wrong exists, then reversing back up them, weaving left and dodging back right again into the traffic.

Somehow we made it past all the palm plantations and to Port Dickson in one piece. The Port is a popular beach town, but the murky grey waves and smell dispelled any thought of venturing into the water. Instead we sat in the quiet beachside park and had a Malaysian style picnic. I bought some pisang goreng, or bananas fried in batter, from a little cart and found them so delicious that I just had to go back for seconds over the protestations of the others. "Why fill you stomach when you can eat so many other dishes?" they said.

I'm glad I didn't listen for I have never enjoyed pisang goreng as much as I did that day.

On the return from Port Dickson we made a detour via Putrajaya, the new administrative capital of Malaysia. While it was still under construction at the time I found it impressive, possibly rivalling Canberra as a planned capital. It needed more trees, though (and still does), and people (again, it still does). We survived another drive the wrong way down a one-way street and made it back to the hotel in one piece, but I swore that I would never sit in that car again.

Thankfully, the other friend of B's mum was a far more skilled driver with a bigger car. We were off to Melaka, a port city that had played a major role in Malaysia's history and interactions with the European world. Melaka was at one time or another controlled by the Portuguese, the Dutch and the British and each has left its mark. It is also the home of the Peranakans, the result of marriage between Chinese men and Malay women who combined their cooking skills to create the wonderful Nonya cuisine.

We wandered from the famous red Stadthuys and St Paul's Church up to the ruined fort of A'Famosa and the interesting recreation of a Sultan's palace. While the others drove to their next location B and I caught a trishaw on a tour of the old streets. The poor cyclist struggled at times and I got out a walked up a couple of particular steep spots.

The old shophouses of Melaka are so evocative of another age, with colourfully decorative tiling and paintwork. The town oozes history and a trishaw ride was a great way to experience it.



We rejoined the others and had a sumptuous Nonya lunch at the Peranakan House. The restaurant retained the ornate furniture and decorations of times past and, with the fans slowly rotating above, was an atmospheric environment to taste the most special cuisine of Malaysia.

During out time in Melaka we explored some of the tourist craft shops, picking up various knick-knacks including a bamboo percussion instrument and a decorative bow and arrow. Somehow we were allowed to bring them all back into Australia.

That night we returned to Bangsar to eat at the tandoori stall, but unfortunately it was closed for the day and the alternative just didn't taste as good. Surprisingly, it was a new experience for the oldies, as they had never eaten tandoori before after spending most of their lives stuck on Chinese cuisine.

In between all this travelling there were visits to other parts of Kuala Lumpur, sometimes with friends and relatives, sometimes on our own. Once we were driven out to a rather rundown shopping centre near Taman Jaya, taking us past some of the more poverty stricken areas of KL. I remember seeing the light rail line running besides us and thinking that I would like to have a ride on this scenic line. Eight years later I got my wish.

The weather was much improved over our last visit to KL. It didn't feel as muggy and most evenings there was a storm to cool things down and clear the air. I enjoyed a swim in the hotel pool, located a number of stories up, the sides open to the air. I watched as lightening flashed down from the dark grey clouds. The cool water felt so wonderful.

At some point I developed a nasty cold. Each day had been long, starting early in the morning to find food and go to the bank, and ending after 10pm when the shops in the nearby shopping centres finally closed. I was quite exhausted from constantly being on the go, and also from almost never having any privacy from B's mum and her friends, so little time with just B and myself alone. One night I simply had enough and stayed back in the hotel room, listening to music on my Walkman while they shopped and ate with another relative. I like to have my own space when we are travelling, to immerse myself during the day, then at night to shut the door and shut-off the rest of the world.

It was time to go home. I stocked up on decongestant sprays and cold medication in the hope that the flight back would not be too unpleasant. Then we drove out to the distant, lonely airport to catch our overnight flight back to Australia.

After the flight home I vowed never to fly Malaysian Airlines again. Overnight flights are bad enough at the best of times, but on this flight none of the inflight entertainment functioned correctly, not even the audio. Announcements over the speaker were similarly unintelligible. And again, by the end of the flight I felt very nauseous.

The flights were so unpleasant that I seriously doubted that I would ever be able to leave Australia again. It was a disappointing end to what had been an exciting return to a beautiful and interesting country.

All photos from our 2008 visit

I've always loved to travel. My first memory is of sitting in a an aircraft, aged 18 months or so. Yet I never believed that I could travel overseas. To me, it seemed like something you did when you retired, or if you were rich.

That all changed when I met B. She had not only travelled overseas, she was from overseas. B was born in Malaysia and arrived in Australia, with her family, in 1988. She still had relatives and friends in Malaysia and Singapore and she, along with the remainder of her family, planned to return for a visit during the Australian summer of 1995.

At the time I was staying in B's mother's house while we were studying at university. After B's father passed away the year before I was the nominal "man" of the house and its high maintenance garden; her brother Michael was studying up in Queensland. B and I were quite inseparable and her mother kindly offered to pay for me to join them on their vacation.

So it was that I obtained my very first passport and on the 6th of December 1995 I found myself leaving the country for the first time. B and I were the first of the family to depart, the other two would follow later.

I recall little about that first flight on a Singapore Airlines 747, except for feeling a little queasy as we neared the end of our eight hour flight. I looked out the window to see a huge queue of ships outside the busy port island.

The shock came when I stepped out of the air conditioned airport terminal and into the tropical humidity of Singapore. It was like a wall of hot liquid air. For the next month I would rarely feel clean and fresh; I remarked that I was continuously showering myself in perspiration.

We were met at the airport by B's aunt and uncle and driven to their house in the suburbs. The uncle was a quiet man, content to pursue his own activities. His wife was a complete contrast. She talked continuously to anyone within range and poked her nose into everyone's affairs. We called her AFH, but it is better not to expand on that in a public forum.

Dinner on that first night was sticks of satay home delivered by a man on a motorcycle. I ate 13 before my mouth was suddenly overwhelmed by the spice and could take no more. This tale will contain a lot of food references. The southern Chinese that B was descended from take their meals very seriously and the dishes of Singapore and Malaysia are probably the greatest reasons to visit those countries.

Over the next eleven days B and I explored Singapore. Sometimes in company of AFH, sometimes on our own. On the first morning AFH brought us into the city to eat "carrot cake", a spicy fried dish of glutinous chunks made from Chinese white radish. I remember noticing that the sound of the traffic light walk signals was like bird song.

We wandered the city, visited a museum, shopped for clothes, visited a friend I met on Internet Relay Chat (IRC). Orchard Road's Department Stores were decked out with magnificent Christmas light displays. I encountered my first durian in a street market . I asked B what that awful smell was and she just laughed!



We caught a trishaw around the central area and were taken in Arab street in Little India. The old shopfronts were a change from the glass and concrete sterility of the rest of the city. AFH wondered why we would want to see that "dangerous and dirty area" (it's not really).

I read in a Singapore newspaper that the country had just been awarded developed nation status. Their prime minister at the time Lee Kuan Yew commented that Singaporeans still needed to develop their manners to match. Singapore is a modern, very clean city and English is widely used and understood. I was surprised by how easy it was to adapt to this new country.

My culture shock came when we crossed the causeway into Johor Bahru (JB) in Malaysia. One of the reasons for B and her family to return to Malaysia was to renew their identity cards. The Auntie and Uncle drove us across from Singapore and to JB in order for B to renew hers. The difference between the two cities was astounding.

JB was dirty, the buildings run down and it stank. For the first time I felt like I was in a truly different country to Australia. Along with the bureaucracy's of the Malaysian government offices I would have had a very negative image of the city, but for one redeeming experience.

Our lunch was taken in a small and fairly open and fairly run down Malaysian restaurant/cafe. We chose various curries and salads to go with our rice. The place might have been unpretentious, but the food was incredible, especially the beef rendang that was more like a sweet than a meat dish. That experience encapsulated Malaysia for me; it mightn't be clean or modern, but it sure tastes good!

Back in Singapore we continued our wanderings. We devoted one day to Sentosa Island, Singapore's fun park. We walked around the island, caught a cable car to the main island and back again, posed in front of a big dragon, but two experiences really stood out. One was having A&W root beer floaters and the other was the water park. It was so nice to escape the heat, relaxing in an inflated tube while it drifted around the water. We gave the violent water slide tunnel a go, but B didn't enjoy the darkness. What I didn't dare try were the steep water slides. I watched others slam their backsides on to the slide surface, screaming out. Later I read that the water park wouldn't have been allowed in the US due to liability issues!



B's brother Michael joined us later on in Singapore. He became the focus of AFH's attentions, which gave us a break. Every morning she would feed us this spicy dried pork meat and almond flavoured agar-agar jelly, whether we liked it or not. One day she decided to follow us to meet one of Michael's friends in the city, despite his protestations. He did not fancy her interrogating the guy. But you could not stop her when she was determined to do something. She pursued him along the footpath, then must have tripped on her overly long tailored pyjama-like dress and fallen flat on her face. I must admit uncharitable hopes were going through my head at the time.

After 11 days it was time to leave Singapore for Malaysia proper. We drove across to Johor Bahru again and boarded the train for Kuala Lumpur. We could have caught it from Singapore itself, but then would have paid in Singaporean dollars rather than the cheaper Malaysian ringgit.

The Malaysian train was both wonderful and awful at the same time. The seats were okay and the scenery outside was wonderful, especially when we travelled through small villages with their ornate little hindu temples hidden away in the jungle hills. I really felt like we were in a foreign land while on the trains. Now and then somebody would walk through the train singing cally pup (curry puff).

What was difficult to tolerate were the televisions at each end of the carriage. They showed awful movies, in English, like White Hunter, Black Heart interspersed with the same old commercials over and over and over again. Kancil cars, Mamee and Nyum-nyum snacks, I can still hear them. For the sound was played over the loudspeakers, so there was no escape.

Kuala Lumpur did not impress me. When we arrived the city was still in the process of building many of its great landmarks of today. The footpaths were crumbling, and were the domain of ever-present motorscooters, often with whole families mounted atop. The air was hot, humid and highly unpleasant.

It wasn't all bad, however. Our hotel was nearby to KL's Chinatown area of Petaling Street. We ate delicious kuihs (Malaysian sweets) for breakfast and there was a shopping an easy walk away. There were also more of B's relatives and friends in KL to show us around.



There was B's paranoid uncle, whose funeral we attended earlier this year. We ate dinner with him at a Chinese restaurant at the Central Markets while he described how the mafia and triads were out to get him, proposing that B's father's death was not a tragic heart attack (it was).

Far more sane were B's cousins. We drove out on a day trip with them, the three of us crammed into the back of their car, with the other adults in front and their two young daughters sitting on our knees. The girls were fascinated by my leg hair, calling me a monkey.

Our first stop was the Batu Caves. The caves, smoky with incense, house a number of Hindu temples, their sides carved with a magnificent array of strange animal gods. Only I was game enough the climb the 272 steps up to the cave entrance. I started off very fast, then suddenly my legs almost gave way. It was embarrassing to watch old ladies walk past me at a steady pace!



When I returned we drank young coconut juice straight out of the coconuts, their tops hacked off with a big knife, while monkeys played around us.

The next stop was the Genting Highlands. High up in the cool hills sits a casino complex, complete with a large, but very quiet, amusement park. We tried out an immersive cinema experience, with seats that tip forward and move to simulate bumps and acceleration as a truck hurtled down a hill on the screen in front of us. Interesting, but despite the warnings to buckle up, my seatbelt didn't work.

I loved the cool dry air, finally feeling human again, but the others shivered with cold. On the side of one of the hills was a colour Buddhist temple complex with a 9 floor pagoda and big Buddha statue. It was relaxing and we watched the wild monkeys play in the treetops of the surrounding jungle.



We ate dinner at the Hard Rock Cafe in Kuala Lumpur. It's funny that, while we were trying to eat Malaysian food in Malaysia, relatives and friends almost always wanted to take us out to western joints, which are big treats for them. At the behest of others we tried hot'n'spicy chicken at KFC in Malaysia, but it tasted mild in comparison to the Australian version and the local dishes.

Far nicer was the genuine tandoor claypot baked chicken and naan from a night market stall at Bangsar. The tandoori chicken in Australia did not bear comparison. We ate and ate until, at last, we could not fit a morsel more down our throats.

From Kuala Lumpur it was another train ride up to Butterworth at the northern tip of Peninsula Malaysia. From Butterworth you can catch trains across into Thailand, but we were going to spend a few days with family friends in the city of Kulim.

Kulim was my absolute highlight of this holiday. An untouristed sleepy little city the people were very friendly, always laughing with delight and appreciation when I ordered the local dishes without fear of spiciness at the covered hawker stalls. It contrasted strongly with KL where I, as a westerner, was seen as a walking wad of cash. When we wanted to catch a taxi B and Michael would hide me until the had haggled a price, then call for me to appear.

The friends owned a printing company in the town, a real old printer with oil, grease and pulleys, as well as a more modern computerised system. Kulim's shophouses held history and stories like that, best appreciated in the lazy afternoon light.

B's earliest days were spent on a rubber estate outside of Kulim. We drove around the rural area, past the rubber trees with their latex sap flowing into small collection tubs, past palm oil plantations and long-house kampongs with dogs and chickens running wild around the grounds.



Their daughter was roughly our age and challenged us to a climb up a nearby mountain. In the extreme humidity it was a very tough ask. I had to carry B some of the way up the trail. But somehow we made it up and made it down, soaked in perspiration.

One evening they took us to eat at a country club, but we weren't allowed in by the Indian doorman on account of my wearing shorts. Anything else would have been wasted luggage space to me. However, we did have a fantastic eating experience on another day. We attended a traditional family meal with wonderfully delicious home made dishes and kuihs. In the garden was a rambutan tree from which we picked the sweet red hairy fruits, fighting off the little black ants that wanted them for themselves.

It was at this time that B's mum joined us in Malaysia. We drove to Penang Island to pick her up, crossing the grey waters on one of the yellow car ferries. Prior to meeting her at the airport we stopped at Penang's famous snake temple. Apparently most of the snakes had disappeared due to the heavy development on the island and the temple was a real disappointment.



Christmas was spent in the friends house, uncelebrated by anyone except for me giving B her gift. I rather missed Christmas that year. Instead I was holed up in my room desperately sniffing anything pleasant; sweets, jelly cups; unable to go downstairs and join the others. They were eating durian and the horrible rotten stench was intolerable to my sensitive nose.

Soon afterwards we left Kulim to stay on Penang Island. I had heard wonderful things about Penang food, but compared with Kulim it was a huge disappointment. The one dish I did enjoy was the roti canai, Indian style flatbread with curry, made by a very fat Indian man in a cafe down the street from our hotel.

Our hotel room had two double beds. For propriety's sake, as B and I weren't married, B and her mum slept in one and I was supposed to take the bed with Michael. Well, B is the only one I can share a bed with, so I ended up on the floor. The only good thing about the hotel was that it had a western toilet. I had been unable to use the squat in the Kulim house, holding on until Penang.

We tried to explore some of Colonial Penang on foot, but crossing the busy roads was terrifying as there were no pedestrian intersections. The main resort strip at Batu Ferringhi was a taxi ride away. B's family had stayed at some of the luxury resorts there and we spent an afternoon relaxing in one of the bars, sipping on a starfruit juice and wandering around the pool. You wouldn't want to swim at the actual beach as the water was grey and polluted.

My favourite place in Penang was the Kek Lok Si temple. It is at the side of Penang Hill accessible by a long walk up a covered stairway lined with stalls selling all manner of goods, from plastic toys to Chinese herbs. The walk, though moderately strenuous was also a fun experience.

The temple complex was quite magnificent, with temple buildings and stupas of black stone, of white and red, and of gold, decorated with carvings and motifs. There were great views of Penang and surrounds.



Penang marked our last stop in Malaysia. From there we repeated our train ride in reverse, this time all the way back to Singapore. It was a long train ride, spent sitting up overnight, and it was a great relief to finally arrive the following evening.

While I had to be hidden from taxis in Malaysia, suddenly I was an asset in Singapore. The taxis were ignoring the passengers spilling out from the train station, until I was given the task of flagging one down for us.

With the entire family now in Singapore it was time for big gatherings of relatives. Another uncle and aunty live in Singapore and they held a dinner at their central apartment which included serving up a suckling pig. There is much jealousy between the two aunts and AFH decided to hold a big party at her house. Everyone was given the task of making the single dish for the evening: crab filled wontons. We sat at the table all morning stuffing the meat filling into the pastries. It took hours and it was hot. There was no way I was eating it and, as I guessed, most suffered food poisoning that night. I went hungry.

I had an excuse. A couple of days before AFH took us to a steamboat restaurant. This is where you take your pick of meat and vegetables and boil it yourself in a cooker at the centre of the table. Twice I have had steamboat and both times I have woken up at 1am the next day spilling my guts out both orifices. This was one of those times. I had no wish to repeat the experience with the wontons.

Fortunately, we did get some time to ourselves. We went down to the science museum with one of B's cousins. I loved watching the cosmic rays in the cloud chamber and afterwards we watched a documentary at the IMAX theatre. Starving, we took the easy option of dining at the Burger King outside. The Bacon Deluxe burger was like manna from heaven. After a month of eating very little but local food fatty bacon and cheese never tasted so good.

It was time to head home. The New Year had arrived and on the 2nd of January we caught the overnight flight back to Sydney. My first trip overseas had been a wonderful experience. It probably didn't make as large as impact on me as some of my later trips, but it had shown me that I could go overseas, that I could see the rest of the world.

A small selection of photos

Back down to Canberra again for the day for a meeting that couldn't be done over a teleconference. How to make it interesting? Use it as a chance to compare Australia's two largest domestic airline services.

My previous trips had all been on Qantas and QantasLink aircraft, a mixture of Boeing 737-400 jets and Dash 8 Q400 turboprops. Virgin Blue have also started flying the Sydney-Canberra route using their new Embraer E-170 jets. I had only flown on Virgin twice before, up to Rockhampton and back, and I wanted to see what they were like. The fact that they had the cheapest fares was another bonus, nothing like saving the organisation money!

I picked Qantas on the way back because of their times were more convenient. This also gave me an opportunity to directly compare the services.

Both Qantas and Virgin offer online check-in from 24 hours before the flight, which is fantastic a) because I can select the seats for myself and b) because I don't have to reach the airport so early. Despite this, I still woke early to catch the train to the airport. It was cold outside and I could see frost alongside the track.

Sydney Airport's Terminal 2 is much improved from the last time we used it, with a decent range of eateries and shops. I didn't linger long, instead going to my flight's gate (39), so I could take photos. It had a good view of aircraft movements across the runways, great for getting into the mood for flying.

I boarded our little "Jungle Jet" from Brazil. I had never flown in an E-170 before, though I did sit in an even smaller E-145 in China. This jet wasn't too small, with 2x2 seating and more cabin space than Qantas' Q400 turboprops. The leather upholstered seats were certainly wider and more comfortable, thought they felt a little flimsy. I was hoping that the aircraft would also give a smoother ride.



The total flight time is scheduled as 55 minutes, but half an hour of that is spent just taxiing out to the runway. We took off from the more northerly of the two parallel runways, something I'm not used to. We flew north and up into the cloud bank.

Uh oh, I thought. I hate flying in clouds. It's too bumpy. Indeed, the E-170 seemed to feel the niggles more than the other jets, despite me being seated just forward of the wing.



Our flight path curved south over the ocean and eventually we were flying parallel to the coast, then south-westwards across the coastal sandstone Illawara escarpment. Below us were reservoirs of water and green forest valleys filled with fog.

As we got closer to Canberra high grey cloud covered the skies above us, lending the now-yellowing landscape below us and almost painted appearance. The aircraft barely had time in cruise before we began our descent into Canberra Airport, the plane shaking as we passed over the hills.



As we disembarked I asked one of the female flight attendants about her male compatriot on the flight. Yes, he was Dislocated Arm David of Jetstar's Going Places documentary. Formerly a Jetstar international flight attendant he now works for Virgin Blue, yet his face still features on Jetstar's television advertising!

On our descent we were informed that the temperature outside was 0 degrees Celcius. Fortunately I got to the taxi rank before the huge Monday queues appeared.

By the time I reached the headquarters the sky was starting to clear up. But I had read that showers and storms were predicted and watched in fear as rain clouds appeared and the wind gusted outside our meeting room windows. Not another rough storm like on my last trip!

By the time evening arrived and I was back at the airport the skies had mostly cleared. I had a while to wait, so I amused myself by reading the morning's paper and taking the odd photo out of the windows, watching the aircraft movements in the golden evening light.



Eventually our flight was called and I boarded the Qantas 737-400. From the brand new E-170 to one of the oldest aircraft in the Qantas fleet. I was disappointed to see that my seat, with its new honeycomb upholstery, was just behind the wing and hoped that it would be a smooth flight.



Another long taxi out to the runway and we were off into the darkness. There really wasn't much to see out of the window, so I just relaxed and tried to enjoy the flight. The very professionally attired Qantas staff began delivering their snacks while the aircraft was still angled upwards. I had a tandoori chicken roll and lemonade, while the passengers besides me just partook of small bottles of wine.

I noticed that The Hollowmen, a comedy/drama about a media/policy team in the Prime Minister's office was showing on the cabin screens and wondered if that was appropriate for passengers from Canberra. I enjoy the series but for many it's apparently too close for comfort.

The cabin crew quickly collected all the rubbish from the meals and we began our descent towards Sydney. Suddenly the flight became really rough and we entered the cloud layer. I think