After a quick cuppa tea with Mum and a transfer of all my stuff into one easy suitcase, Roj drove me to the airport and I met Kirsty who lumbered me with her tour bag I’ll be hauling around for the next four weeks. The reason was to save on charges which the guy at check-in wasn’t sure I would. The next guy at the bag drop wasn’t sure I’d even get the clubs in Los Angeles or ever see them again for that matter. So I had a feeling there’d be a problem. I called Kirsty however to tell her everything was fine in a guy-to-girl ‘there there’ sort of style. She bought it.
Terminal 5 is great – everything is brand new and clean and efficient and works which is wicked. Settled into seat 47a without a hitch and watched freezing Britain disappear below me. I’m always baffled as to why people prefer middle seats or the aisle. The best views of the world are from the window of a plane aren’t they? I must have done 200 photos so far just from the comfort of my seat. A visual diary from the air. Anyway after watching three films and eating two meals, we arrived in LA just like that! It was a doddle.
So I eventually got through the retina scans and fingerprint analysis and American ‘Minority Report’ style bureaucracy and checked in my bag and Kirsty’s clubs again and with five hours to kill jumped onto a bus to Santa Monica.
With Cheryl Cole - or is it Sheryl Crow’s - ‘All I wanna do’ in my head, I sauntered down the boulevard and saw the carwash and met Bill or Billy or Mac or Buddy peeling the labels of his bottle of Bud and whatever and wandered down the beach.
It’s lovely there. The beach is pure white sand and about 200 meters deep. Forgetting it was January I was a bit surprised to feel the Pacific Ocean a trifle chilly and not beckoning me to dive in – so I didn't. Beautiful though.
Why can't the Americans make decent beer? I drank half a pint of dreadful beer on the pier and poured the rest into the ocean below I wandered up the main street past the street performers and bums and middle-aged women with way too much make-up on in their fancy cars and entered a really cool bar with an NFL game showing. I sat down with a local brew - equally poor - and enjoyed watching a running back get clattered so hard on the field that he had to get helicoptered out of there – pretty serious if you bear in mind how much bloody padding those guys wear.
I got chatting about this incident with a couple called Travis and Morgan - girlfriend and boyfriend but sounded to me more like a clothing chain, building firm or car manufacturer. They were cool and loved the fact I was a caddy and all that jazz. We had a few beers there and then went over the road to a Mexican joint where Travis proceeded to buy 4-shot Margaritas at $25 a go. He was awfully proud to be in the oil business so I naturally let him buy. After a couple of these, I was genuinely hallucinating and found myself ‘coming up’ on the toilet. I was proper tripping out. Mescal and the little grub in the bottom are known for their 'lively' effects and I was getting it full bore. It's strong shit and I was chugging back four shots in every pint.
He knew I had a flight to catch but the drinks kept coming. Being the polite Brit I drained them and doing the usual Brit on tour thing I garnered their contact details and promised to meet them again someday. As if. I bid them both farewell. Thinking I could just hop back on the bus, I staggered up to the main highway again and got looking for a bus stop. I was on the wrong highway.
After 15 minutes of staring blankly at the timetable and not recognising anything in front of me - no matter how many versions I was seeing - I eventually found the right highway a few blocks away but by this time it was about 9pm and my flight was boarding in 45minutes – LAX was 45minutes away and then I needed a connecting bus to the terminal. I was getting a little worried.
There wasn’t a bus due for 20 minutes so I started hitching. Would you pick up a drunken Brit staggering backwards and banging into lampposts and falling into the road? It will come as no surprise to you that I didn’t get a ride. So I started to panic thinking I would a, miss my flight, b, let Kirsty down and more importantly be tempted to meet up with Travis and co for more of the same.
Behind New York, Los Angeles is the taxi capital of the world, certainly of the US so I started hunting. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. This is the States, man! Every movie ever recorded has characters walking out of a building and a mere glance in the direction of the street gets them a yellow cab screeching to a halt in half a second. Me, here, at this hour? No chance.
A bus finally pulled over and I jumped on. It was 9.15 in the pm now. I was a little anxious and to quote Hemingway ‘a little tight’. I watched the LED clock in the front like a hawk ticking at twice the usual tempo and the bus getting no nearer the sodding airport. Every American on board wanted to get off 100 yards from the last person and every drunken vagrant wanted to get picked up at the stops they didn’t. The journey out that took 45 minutes was beginning to stretch over an hour to get back and I frankly didn’t have an hour. It was now 9.45pm and the flight was boarding. I was in Venice beach – 15 miles away.
Every cab that drove by looked like it might stop at the same lights as us so I got thinking I could hop off and get in but lady luck wasn't working tonight. Eventually, we pulled up at the bus depot and I asked the driver where I could get a taxi – he very helpfully took me to the rank around the corner.
I jumped into a cab and in my best English said,
‘Departures, please’
‘Huh?’
'Ahem, Departures please.’
‘Huh?’
Jesus.
‘DEPARTURES!!!’
‘Which terminal?’
God. ‘ I dunno. It doesn’t say on my ticket!’
‘Huh?’
Christ. ‘IT DOESN”T SAY!’
‘Huh?’
‘Just get me to the airport and I’ll figure it out you useless sonofabi…’
‘Hu…’
I got nearby, threw some Yankee shrapnel through the window and ran. It was 10.15pm and the flight was due to take off in half an hour.
In my haste to get to the gate, I bowled over some nine-foot black security guard and he wasn’t happy. He also wouldn’t let go of my ear until I had admitted that I was a rude English prick. Understandably. Under any other circumstances, I would have spat in his face and called him any number of obscenities but I was quite keen to get on the flight that was now leaving in 20.
I did my best to smile, kissed his J-Lo ass and then in a change of fortune he guided me through security the quick way.
Running all the way to the big white bird I heard my name being called several times over the tannoy. The humiliation. I kept hearing 'Last call for Mr Keeping...?' as I ran like Forrest Gump down the endless corridors to the furthest gate in LAX.
The stewardess had her hand on the door handle as I shimmied past her onto the plane. I swear I heard someone say, ‘There’s being late and there’s being a twat.’ from the flight deck as I sauntered by…
Stinking of Tequila and lime juice and sweating profusely to the point of an accompanying green cloud, I received a hearty applause for my tardy arrival and proceeded to bounce, swagger and sway my way through to row 86 (the Airbus 380 is a big plane).
Climbing across a delightful Aussie couple I planted my drunken ass in the seat at the back of the world’s biggest aeroplane and breathed a sigh of relief.
Never again.
Well, until next time anyway.
===============
I'd been looking forward to flying on the Airbus 380 since its launch a few months before but had been dreading my first long-haul flight since 1999. Take-off was seamless, effortless and thoroughly enjoyable - apparently - I knew nothing about it. I passed out as soon as I sat down.
I awoke some 10 hours later to a very dry cactus-flavoured mouth and everyone on board sleeping like babies. We were still four hours away but I couldn’t care less. The flight I had been dreading for ten years had been a nightmare to board but a pleasure to sleep through. I'd given it some careful consideration when choosing my seat because nothing irritates me more than the guy behind you using your seat as a drum kit or mobility aid. The guy behind me on the London - LA flight was playing footsie with my chair and practising his jab on it in between so I figured I ought to maybe reserve a seat without anybody like that behind me. Hence the row 86 seat. No one behind me and plenty of room to recline - nice. I also packed some earplugs and a mask but in my drunken stupor, I didn't require them.
Everyone began to wake and after a minor issue with my onboard entertainment not working I enjoyed my continental breakfast and watched ‘Dark Knight’. It went on a bit for my liking but the accolades to the late Heath Ledger’s performance are spot on.
Then we landed. 15 hours had flown by - if you’ll excuse the pun – and I grabbed the camera in time to enjoy the pilot swing his 600-tonne bird over Sydney Harbour for us all to enjoy. Back in my second home again. Lovely.
As we were disembarking the plane I heard my name called again over the tannoy - much to my continued humiliation - asking me to contact the ground staff once through customs. Oh no – had they still got the ‘ump about me boarding late?
Similar to the US, Australian immigration is a nightmare and it took me an hour to get through. Even though we had landed ahead of schedule at 7.30am, by the time I got through it was gone 9am.
Kirsty had not put my entire name including the Walkden bit on my ticket so the Aussies were a bit suspicious of me. And who can blame them? I approached the ground staff who took me away and suggested the notion that if my name had been called out, I was going to be a bagless boy one way or the other. I was. Kirsty’s clubs hadn’t made it to LA on my plane. Feeling partly responsible possibly for my actions the night before I called her and told her the news. She understood but was naturally concerned. We were teeing off in two days at the NSW Open - without clubs, it might be tricky.
Qantas promised they were on the next flight in two hours’ time. I said I’d stick around for them but Kirsty wasn’t going to let me. So we arranged a delivery to her address later in the afternoon and hopped into her car and I got dropped off in Hyde Park in central Sydney.
Knowing my way around immediately I walked straight down George Street to the harbour and saw my favourite bridge again. The imaginatively named 'Harbour Bridge' is lovely. I bought a ticket on the Manly ferry like it was yesterday. The ferry left Circular Quay and pulled out parallel to the Harbour Bridge.
The ferries haven’t changed a bit in ten years and standing at the back of the busy boat I did my best not to look left until the optimum view appeared. When I knew the right moment presented itself I looked left and there she was. The Sydney Opera House in all her polar white glory. It’s such a beautiful structure and the perfect accompaniment to the Harbour Bridge adjacent to it and the city behind - so beautiful and so good to see it all again.
When my sister lived with us in '99 we used to go into the city as often as we could whether it be by Manly ferry or train, bus, or car and every time we saw the Sydney Opera House we'd all cry out, "There she is!" Nostalgia's not what it used to be...
Arriving 40 minutes later in Manly was a journey back in time. The place hasn’t changed a bit. The turquoise water laps up the beach on the quayside and the unique pine and fir trees line the beaches on either side of the Corso swaying in the gentle breeze. It’s unique because none of the other beaches in Sydney have this beautiful contrast between sand, sea and flora and it makes Manly a bit special to me.
After enjoying the nostalgia of it all and reminiscing about times of yore, I found myself beginning to get tired and annoyed so I knew I needed to ditch my bag and go for a shower and/or a swim.
I found the backpackers I was looking for and checked in. The perfectly tanned girl at reception was probably a size 6 but seriously top-heavy. It was going to be a good place to stay.
I hopped in the lift up to my room to find a sign on the door from the management saying ‘Dear backpackers, this room is disgusting and if it is not cleaned and tidied today you will be evicted. How do you expect us to rent out the other beds when it is in this state? The management.’
They weren’t wrong. It was mingin'. I couldn’t even tell which bed was supposed to be mine for the week. It looked as though the Young Ones had moved into the one room, had one long continuous party for six months and gone out.
I'm not 18 years old anymore and knew what to do. I went straight into the ‘bathroom’ had a (cold) shower and shaved and went back downstairs to be British and complain. True to form I complied and stated my case to the girl with the ridiculous breasts and not only managed to get my $35 for the room back, not only my $10 deposit for the dirty, wet towel I was returning but a further $20 for the sheets they hadn’t given me and I hadn’t paid for! I walked out of that dump with my irate customer walk on, clean and fresh and $20 better off! I knew I was good at this travelling lark.
I spent the afternoon down the beach instead of worrying about accommodation. Those suitcases with wheels are a bit tricky to drag across the sand but he who dares and all that…
Several hours later and typically British I was burned to a crisp and wandered aimlessly around hoping to find a bed for less than $100 a night but knowing that the last crappy backpackers were knocking out single rooms at $110 I knew I’d struggle to get my own hotel room in high season for less.
I stumbled across another backpackers and at this stage was more than happy to spend $100 for a decent room to myself but after looking at the dormitory room with only one other person in it, I was sold. $30 a night too. Technically it only cost me $10 after my previous escapades so all was good.
It then occurred to me where I was. After ten years away, I was in my second home. I had lived in Manly for nearly a year in 1999 and, like everyone else who visits Australia on their student travels, I promised to return to live permanently as soon as I could.
Ten years had gone by and I couldn't believe it. All the hopes and dreams I'd had about starting a new life in Sydney had been forgotten about whilst slipping straight back into the old routine in England.
I spent a magical month in Australia with a brief scoot over to Christchurch for the NZ Open. I then hopped back on the A380 to return home to England in the depths of winter.
On the flight home, I felt like the luckiest guy in the world. I had been asked to accompany my player and friend to the other side of the world and travel around my favourite country whilst doing a job I loved. I had spent time with friends and family I hadn't seen in ten years and had an amazing time without a single hiccup or costing me a bean. During the flight, I became extremely appreciative for being fit, healthy, free and able to do a trip like this.
I also felt an enormous sense of gratitude towards the aviation industry. Without the advances in technology and safety, I wouldn't have been able to enjoy a seamless month away and return safe and sound in luxury and comfort to my loved ones.
Thank you world - you made an occasionally grumpy sod very happy
CK
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