My mother lives in Perth, Australia.
Perth is just about as far away from Chicago as one can live, without wintering over in Antarctica. If she sought a job there, I doubt she'd have been offered one, as she's 88 years old and doesn't enjoy cold weather. So that left Perth. I don't take it personally that she moved there. She followed a wonderful Australian man down there. She wasn't running away. She fell in love. But that's another story.
My brother-in-law was explaining to a coworker where my mother lived. That it was far away. That it was exotic. The puzzled reply was, "Do you mean Perth, Franth?" He explained the difference, the different geography, but only partially cleared up the confusion. One has baguettes. The other has koalas. One is East, the other South and East, or West. One speaks French. The other sort of speaks English. Oh, the coworker said.
Part 1: Travel Heaven and Hell
Do you know how long it takes to get from my apartment in Chicago to my mother's house in Perth? Let me count the hours.
1. Our Apartment to O'Hare Airport: 45 minutes in a pleasant Uber, at rush hour, through stop-start traffic.
2. Chicago O'Hare Airport, Terminal 5: 4 hours of rugby-scrum security, TSA monotonously yelling at cowed crowds to take their laptops out, belts off, shoes off, and no you can't take water into the airport. Then, a three-hour wander around overcrowded, poorly-designed, badly-managed, shithole of a terminal hallways that smell of damp, gum-stuck carpet, with no food or drink on sale after 7pm, unintelligible loudspeakers, no seats that aren't free, or sticky, no luggage carts so we carry our stuff everywhere, mostly incompetent airport staff that scream at the top of their lungs at people to do this or that, most passengers sitting on the floor wearing bedroom soft clothes and wired into their phones. The signage is terrible, hard to know where to go, the most accurate signs are paper ones taped to walls by employees who still give a damn. The design of the place feels rabbit-warren, closed in and oppressive. Ceiling panels are askew, some with wires falling out, all are dirty. Even the brand new addition in Terminal 5 feels like a slightly wider hallway in a crappy mall, half of it used as storage for a huge collection of temporary room dividers. Expressions of exhaustion, indifference, annoyance and anger on nearly everyone's faces. I wonder how long the broken moving walkways, yellow police tape at either end, have been broken. The airport feels like a microcosm of American society today. Who will throw the first punch to start the total conflagration?
How it is, as a nation, that we are not ashamed of our infrastructure, is beyond me. Oh wait! The billionaires in charge don't go through regular airport terminals! They have no idea of the shitty quality of our infrastructure! Duh. And so it makes sense to the Average American that spending money on our public spaces is a liberal waste of cash.
(To note, on our return, we spent 2 1/2 hours standing (never sitting) in a customs and immigration line at O'Hare, 0.9 miles long according to my Fitbit, in poorly ventilated hallways, and a series of rooms, surrounded by painfully screaming children because they couldn't go to the bathroom without losing their place in line. The first O'Hare staff member we talked to knew nothing, other than to tell people to stay in line, though she wasn't sure which line, and wasn't challenging anyone who was skipping it. The second staff member (one with "ASK ME QUESTIONS" printed on the back of her jacket) kept her back to me when I asked, politely, if she knew what forms we needed to fill out before immigration, and where I could find them. She wasn't giving any more out, was her surly answer, to someone else across the room. When the immigration officer asked for the filled out form, I explained what airport staff had told us, and he didn't reply, looked disgruntled, and filled it out for us....and perhaps only 3/4 of the visible TSA officers checking passports, the rest stood around, chatting with themselves leaning against walls (if you're going to do that, do it behind closed doors, not in front of exhausted passengers, unless sadism is really part of the game). Really, I saw no one working at O'Hare airport who looked happy.
Anyway, who has seen better? The rest of the world is a worse shithole, no?
3. Qatar Airways Economy Class, Chicago to Doha: 11.5 hrs. sitting in a new 777, run by polite and efficient staff, in reasonably comfortable seats, with a good but limited movie collection, three heavy and perfectly edible meals, and all the drink we can manage. Not a exceptional flying experience, but a perfectly good one (an 8 out of 10, if I would rate the average American domestic flight experience around 3 out of 10, with their hard-ass seats, stressed-out flight attendants with forced smiles, and unpredictable schedules).
4. Hamad Airport Layover, Doha, Qatar: 7 hrs to burn in an airport. As we get off the plane, Qatar Airways staff are holding up signs for all connecting flights, to help guide bleary and disoriented passengers. Are those free luggage carts to move our stuff around easily while we wait for our connection? Yes! Thank you! The Information kiosks are staffed, not empty. The people in them speak perfect English and have useful answers to our questions about where to find what. They look us in the eye and smile. We go through security to get to the main terminal, and the employees are amazingly efficient, polite, well-dressed, and no one yells at anyone. Staff, for the most part, look genuinely happy.
How is this possible, I ask myself, used to American standards of airport experience. Aren't these "guest workers" in Qatar treated terribly, paid terribly, away from their families and home countries, and struggling to get by? Aren't our American airport employees at home, among friends and family, paid relatively well, and have lots of rights through their unions, and if no union, then a choice of other jobs if they don't like one? Are the Qatar employees terrorized into seeming happy in their jobs, and the Americans actually happy with all their privilege, but just come off as surly, indifferent, even sadistic? Help me out here. Why should I not believe my eyes, ears, and nose?
We arrive at 5pm and the terminal is quiet, almost empty. The cavernous halls are gleamingly clean, the empty waiting areas huge, and filled with what look like comfortable seats and even some reclining chairs. By 2 am, when our flight for Perth leaves, the airport is crowded to capacity, filled with people from all over the world, speaking every language, wearing every kind of clothes. We mill past each other in huge crowds, but never feel shunted or close in or kept from where we need to go. As nothing gets in the way, the airport reveals its smart design. Everything just works. The shops are a bit maze-like, intentionally, so you wander them. But finding your way out, and towards where you need to go, is easy. The design adds to the experience of being in a special place, as the art should do.
We take a lovely shower in a lovely spa for $20 each, and it is worth every penny. Is there free Wifi? Yes, thank you! Is that a room with day bed that are free to use to sleep and only half are in use? Thank you! All shops open 24 hours. Wait, what? Thank you! The weird giant teddy bear in the great hall is disturbing, and the big restaurants are all under renovation, but the food halls are adequate, and the beer cold, if costing $16 for a pint.
I have seen better. The rest of the world is apparently not a worse shithole, but actually nicer.
We Americans need to travel more to understand that we need to up our game.
5. Qatar Airways Economy Class Doha to Perth: 13 hours in a new 777, run by polite and efficient staff, in reasonably comfortable seats, with and extensive movie collection, with three perfectly fine meals, and all the drink we can manage. A 9 out of 10, if I would rate the average American domestic flight experience around 3 out of 10). I just wonder why the movie collection was limited on the Chicago leg.
6. Perth Airport: 1 1/2 hrs. of deplaining, walking through an older but well-maintained terminal, then through small but gleaming duty free shops still open at 8pm, then through passport reading machines that work, no lines, then waiting for luggage for a bit, then competent customs people asking logical questions about what we're bringing in, then meeting my mom and her partner in the small reception hall. Perth airport is nothing to write home about, but it is well-managed by people who seem to care.
7. Perth airport to my mom's house: 30 minutes. A drive on the wrong side of the road with little traffic, through roundabout after roundabout.
Welcome to Australia.
Total transit time: 38 hours.
We left our apartment on Tuesday at 4 pm, and arrived at my mom's on Thursday at 8 pm. Somewhere, somehow, Wednesday got lost.
Part 2: Why We Travel
The primary reason for the trip was to visit my mother. We talked. We connected. We made meals together. We fell asleep on the couch watching TV together. It was good. Travel is always about people. Sometimes, though, it's also about the animals.
On our eighth day in Perth, we went to Caversham Wildlife Park, where, for $20, you can hold one of these:
Now, Koalas are having a tough time. They're losing their habitat at a rapid clip, and are now officially an "endangered species". They also have to face down the occasional minister of tourism who asks us to "forget the piddling koalas" and enjoy other aspects of Australia, as they are "flea-ridden, it piddles on you, it stinks and it scratches."
We beg to disagree.
James was his name, and my wife and son each got to hold him for a spell.
The looks on their faces as the park ranger handed James over, were magical.
James touched noses with my son. I doubt he'll ever forget that.
I looked on, watching my son gently hold that plump koala, imagining how he felt the warm weight, that special charge of care. I remembered holding him when he was tiny. I saw amazement and care and joy in his face, and I knew that he will make a great dad, if he ever chooses to be one.
I looked on, knowing my wife's hugs are pretty special, and hoping James could appreciate them a much as I do (but deciding that particular anthropomorphism was likely inaccurate). James was probably wondering wordlessly who they were, and if either of them had eucalyptus leaves on offer. I saw her glow with appreciation at James furry weight.
Almost shaking with excitement and joy, we left the koala compound wondering what office to submit our Bid to Adopt papers for James.
We wondered aloud what the world would look like if Putin had held a koala when he was growing up.
We hugged my mom harder when we got back to her place.
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