I was still trying to figure out why I had cleared customs. Three of the twenty-four flying hours done, twenty-one still ahead of me, and I am wandering through the Duty-Free section of Auckland International. I’ve still to get over the Pacific to Santiago, onwards to Rio, another change then five hours to Fortaleza, in northern Brazil. And then? Make the necessary arrangements to collect my very sick colleague, and bring us both back to Melbourne.
French bubbles to the left, special offers if buying the twin gift pack, boutique gins to the right, perfumery ahead, and then the cigarettes – everything presented so tempting. Hang on, I have given up smoking – forget the smokes. Glitter and presentation tempt the excited or weary traveller. The marketing is just so compulsive, hats off to the retail strategists.
As I continue to blow time in amongst the glitz, a young girl approaches “Sir, would you like to try some unique, 45 year old scotch?” I’m bored “Why not” as I accept her disposable thimble. It was wonderful. “Only $65 for a 200ml bottle.” Oh what the heck, a few nips will help me sleep en route to Chile.
“Do you have any liquids in your hand luggage?” the check-in staff asked. Oh shit, there goes my scotch. I declared it and she indicated the disposal basket. “Do you drink scotch?” I asked, loathe to see such ambrosia disappear into a rubbish bin. She discretely accepts my gift and smiles. “Can I see your Boarding Pass, sir?” I handed her my Row 3, J Class window seat allocation. “Mmm, I think we can do better than that” as she ripped it up, fiddled briefly with her keyboard and delivered me Row 1 Aisle to Santiago – first class!
Well, this is a turn-up for the books. A proper bed and twelve hours before we land. I order a large black label aperitif as we make our way up to 30,000 feet. The beef is superb, and the bearnaise jus matches my rare fillet beautifully. The crème caramel was an extravagance, but what the heck? I turned to my fellow traveller to compare notes. He was dozing but it gave me a moment to observe the outrageously floral eyewear, the pink paisley-patterned jacket, the mauve shirt, clean-shaven, delicate hands and manicured nails. Maybe the jacket was just a smidge over the top. Mid-60s, I was guessing.
I held my own council and started to run through my very sketchy list of famous people –it can’t be Elvis; he’s dead. President Macron, ah, er hang on, the bloke’s a musician, plays the trumpet, maybe. It’s gotta be somebody famous to be sitting in first class.
I changed into the airline-supplied PJs. I woke to orange juice and an omelette. My fellow traveller had changed into an even more flamboyant suit, huge blue-framed glasses and still no obvious ID.
As we disembarked, I did overhear the steward wishing my companion “Have a great tour, Sir Elton.”