Turbulent times: the ugly reality of jet setting

The class system is alive and well at the airport. When boarding you are informed that those who require special assistance may pre-board, while first class passengers are able to board at their leisure.  Next business class passengers may board, followed by premium economy. And just when you think that it is finally time for the average Jo to heard on to the plane with the rest of the cattle, the PA announces that any Gold, Platinum or Oneworld Emerald customers may now board.  Even the names of these frequent flier status’ are a further dig at the exclusivity and decadence of the few, who, having boarding half an hour ago, are now sipping scotch and eating cashew nuts.

And as if that vocal demeaning classification of status wasn’t enough to remind you of your place in society, your subsequent trudge down to the back of the plane will. You walk past comfy looking seats with fresh packed amenity bags and hostesses offering trays of Buck Fizz. With each step the plane seems to narrow and the seats seem to multiply. You notice the eyes of the other passengers furtively scanning the row numbers. 54F? No. Only at row 22, keep moving....

When you eventually find your seat, you cross your fingers that no one will sit next to you. For a few moments there is hope for that little extra bit of room. But just as you breathe a sigh a relief, a biggest looser contestant* comes waddling down the aisle and your heart sinks as you know they are headed right to you.

Honestly if your safety really is their priority as the airlines would like you to believe, they would not pack you in to your seat so tightly that in the ‘unlikely event’ of an emergency, you’ve got bugger-all chance of getting to the emergency exit anyway!

Despite my whinging I should say that flying at all is an utter privilege.I would like to make it clear that I will happily sacrifice these hours of discomfort for the chance to see my friend get married, to ski in Switzerland, and to drink grappa and espresso in Italy. To give some perspective, I know a school in Ghana that does an annual school excursion to the airport. In this context, my griping sounds absurd.

So now I will stop complaining and touch on some other parts of flying worth noting.

Now, to drink or not to drink? That is really a tough question. Alcohol is almost certainly needed to get through the trauma of a long haul flight. But alcohol dehydrates you and if you over indulge you will disembark the plane feeling nauseous and looking like a prisoner of war. Some people have the philosophy that you need to drink you money’s worth. These people have bloodymary’s with their breakfast and stock up on those ity-bity spirit bottles the size of lego men.

Fashion in the air. It seems to me that safety jacket technology hasn’t evolved much over the years. All the airlines seem to favour a yellow sleeveless number with a waist strap, a light and a mouth piece for attracting attention. Here’s hoping none of us will ever have to put one on.

On board aerobics. Now let’s do some exercises so we don’t get deep vein thrombosis. This is a serious malady but alas, the exercises are not so serious. They look like some kind of seated synchronised swimming routine.

As for that mile high club stuff... If anyone’s actually managed to have sex on a commercial flight, I take my hat off to you. The flexibility and speed that is required to achieve such a feat is not a skill possessed by just any man.

There is so much to write about this topic! I don’t even have time to cover the Bermuda triangle that is Heathrow, the politics of putting your seat back, the importance of befriending the flight assistance, or the horrible suction noise the toilet makes when you press flush. I hope you what you have read will make future flights more enjoyable.

Above all remember to travel with a book – there is nothing worse than getting to your seat only to find that some bastard has already done the Sudoku in your in-flight magazine.

*interchangeable with baby, young child or BO challenged person. All are ingredients for an equally uncomfortable flight.

Superstition aint the way

I opened the front door, fumbling with the key in my haste. As it swung open I dropped my bag with a clunk and pelted towards the kitchen. Throwing open the pantry door I searching frantically. There it was, on the middle shelf next to the curry powder and cinnamon sticks. I tipped a fistful into my right palm and then, with eyes closed, I threw it over my shoulder. I stood completely still, staring at the pantry door, a dusting of salt at my feet.

I wouldn’t ordinarily call myself a superstitious person but that afternoon I was stuck by a premonition so powerful, that I felt drastic cosmic action needed to be taken. I had spent the afternoon having good-bye coffees with friends when I had the idea to duck into borders bookshop to pick up a travel book on Holland. With my head tilted sideways to read the colourful spines, I was so absorbed that I didn’t notice the ladder until I was walking under it.  Bang, seven years of bad luck right there. Or was it 5. I wasn’t bothering with the specifics, I just knew it was bad. Of course the feeling of unease that came from walking under a ladder was  compounded by the fact that I was about to leave on a six month foreign exchange and was standing in the travel section.

I did a bit of research to find out the origin of this particular superstition. Turns out there are two theories about why people avoid walking under ladders. The first comes from similarity of a ladder against a well to a yee-olde type gallows. The theory goes that by walking underneath a ladder, you are signalling your own execution.  The other theory is that by leaning against a wall, the ladder creates the Holy Trinity and walking through the triangle desecrates God and leaves you prey to Satan. 

So there you have it. Not wanting to take my chances with Satan before a major European jaunt, I decided to forgo the traditional “spit three times through the ladder’s rungs” and headed home to throw salt over my shoulder instead.  Spitting in Borders is not my scene.

That was over four years ago and time has marched on. I made it back from my overseas exchange in once piece (although somewhat heartbroken) and the Borders bookshop chain has since gone into receivership. My susperstitions however remain unchanged.

A black cat crossing my path gives me the ‘heeby jeebies’. I refuse to open an umbrella inside and feel uncomfortable when other people do. If I ever utter a sentence I do not want to come true, I will make every effort to touch wood – and this often means reaching under the table to find some unlacquered exposed wood, risking the globs of used chewing gum that might be stuck there.

Superstition is everywhere. Most people believe that breaking a mirror is a bad omen. Children often refuse to walk on cracks in the pavement. I have a Swedish friend who won’t put keys on a table top. My mother believes that if you give the gift of a knife, you should also gift coin, or your friendship will soon be cut/broken. For this reason a few Christmasses ago I was unsurprised to unwrap a bread knife with a 50c piece sticky-taped to it.

According to the dictionary, superstition is an irrational belief arising from ignorance or fear. I agree with the fear part but not the ignorant part; Far more ignorant are those who open umbrellas inside and tempt fate.

But I have to admit that superstition can be stressful. Touching wood is often difficult in today's plastic world. Black cats are everywhere and if you tried to avoid every crack on the pavement you wouldn't leave the house. Perhaps that's what Stevie Wonder meant when he advised, “when you believe in things you don’t understand, you will suffer”.

Maybe I will try and grow out of my superstitions. Maybe nothing bad will happen to me. Touch wood.

Review Series. Maha Degustation

In continuation of the theme of randomness, I’d like to dedicate a few blog entries to a review series. This first review is about my dining experience at Maha with my mum and my sister.

In typically Melbourne style, Maha is hidden down a dark alley. Once you descend the staircase and shrug off the feeling that you are entering a basement, you will encounter a very difficult to open front door. After a few minutes where I struggled to ‘push’ the door open despite the ‘pull’ sign,  the maitre di spotted us and rushed to let us in with a look of pity.

Maha is not for the claustrophobic. Its low ceiling appears even more so with the dimly lit interior. That said, it would make a cosy date spot as the lighting is just dark enough to cover up any blemishes.

After we were seated, mum isn’t feeling the ambiance and expresses concern that I am seated on the edge of the thoroughfare to the kitchen. We relocate to a more comfortable bench table which has the added advantage of being further away from a toddler that has just started to scream.

Not a great start but this is about to change. Our waitress swooshes over with three little cups of hibiscus flavoured Egyptian tea. She suggests we say “Saha”, instead of “Cheers”. After Saha-ing and taking a swig of tea, the three of us decide on a 6 course degustation dinner with matching wines. Ooooo yeah. Mum is concerned about getting too boozed. The waitress reassures us that the 6 different wines will only amount to about 4 standard drinks.

We all enjoy the chilled orange and coconut soup poured over a fresh herb salad with combu and lime pearl. Incredibly, this dish manages to be sweet & sour, salty & spicy all at once. Lipsmackingly refreshing. We are appetized and ready for more.

For the next course Steph and mum tuck into some scallops while I look down at what looks like a minimalist vegie garden on a plate. The light brown foam is apparently ‘toast foam’. Hmmm. Worth a try but not something I’d eat every day. I did enjoy the carrot though.

A few courses later I’ve had quite a bit to drink and my notes are getting more and more illegible. I ask my sister the food critic for a verdict on the meal so far: “I’m liking it. Every element. Is good. For me.” Clearly, the four standard drinks are getting to her too.

During the fourth course we decide to come up with a name for our little dining society.

Fam-meal-y suggests my pun loving sister. Groan.

Sisters (and mum) are doing it for themselves is rejected for being too wordy.

Mastication guild is also rejected because, well, it sounds wrong.

The pig -out guild is void because mum reckons it is too close to the truth.

The name will have to wait as our next course has arrived. Desert is some delectable Turkish delight doughnuts. I admit to eating more than one.

After the meal our waitress spritzes our hands with a Turkish lemon cologne and we sip mint tea to aid our digestion. Woah. We are full to bursting at this point.

The bill is presented and mum has a mini heart attack. We pay and make our way to that dammed front door I had trouble with before I had the four standard drinks. The Maitre Di has anticipated me however and is there to hold it open for us. We are given mini scrolls with our menu and paper bags filled with the Turkish doughnut mix. Clutching our goodiebags we ascend out of the basement and into the crisp Melbourne night.

Maha degustation rates: three out of three incredibly full bellies.

A place to call my own

For some time now I’ve wanted to own a home. Not an apartment, but a house with a roof and 4 walls on some land. I want to legally own the land under my feet.

Part of this ambition stems from visions of domestic bliss. I imagine myself pottering around in the garden, hanging up carefully selected paintings and baking scones. Not that it is likely I would actually do this (I rarely bake and almost always burn myself when I do) but that is my anti-feminist domestic fantasy.

Another reason for the choice of a house and not an apartment is my desire to get a dog. This desire is incredibly propelling. I want one and always have (god I sound like Veruka Salt). This means that my house will need a yard as well as proximity to a dog park. There is my first criteria. My second criteria is somewhere to park my car. My third is a property within a reasonable distance to cafe’s, shops, and all the modern conveniences. I believe in real estate terms, it is called a ‘lifestyle’ investment.

Lately I’ve become a bit of a house inspection pro. My record is 12 house inspections in one day. On that day I planned them with military precision and hit them one after the other. Like a well trained soldier I located each property on the map, surveyed the neighbourhood, entered the premises then moved swiftly from room to room taking in every detail.

In general, house inspections go like this:

-          Once you’ve found the street, it’s usually easy to find the house. Just look for house with large For Sale board out the front

-          You then approach the house, make eye contact with selling agent, give your name and number and take brochure. Small talk is not necessary but a nice-to-have.

-          Ask the realtor “is it owner occupied”, if not, as what a typical weekly rent is. Ask what they are asking for the property. Ask if they are any body corporate fees, why the owners are selling etc. Ask if there has been any renovation recently.

-          Tour the house. Take the opportunity to look into other people’s cupboards (he he). Keep your eye out for dodgy fittings, sloping floors, hanging ceilings.

-          If there is a fountain turned on, ambient music playing or scented oils/candles, asked for them to be switched off/ removed. You do not want to a buy a place and find out that the music was hiding noisy neighbours and the scented candles was masking the smell of rot.

-          If there is a back yard, have a look over the fence to next door. Do the neighbours have kids or a loud parrot that spouts Shakespearian sonnets?

-          While you are there, suss out the competition. Are they mostly couples? How serious do they look? But don’t get too stressed. Most often the people wandering around inspections are just curious neighbours having a sticky beak.

All this can be quite exhausting. Especially if you are doing more than one inspections in one day. Try and find someone to go with you, preferably someone with building or carpentry skills. But remember, you will be the one paying the mortgage in the end, so it’s what you think that counts.

I’m still yet to find the house of my dreams. They say now is a good time to buy in Melbourne but honestly there isn’t a real abundance of supply in the market.

 A lot of house hunting seems to be just waiting for the right property to come along. So I will wait. And attend inspections. And be content with burning myself baking on the stove in my apartment.