Paris and Other Disappointments

by Adam Rozenbachs

  Once through security, we set about waiting to board, a necessary period of boredom. Usually I kill time by having a beer or two. Experience had taught me to cap any alcohol at two drinks, because of the trips to the bathroom it induced. Any more than two could result in me settling into my seat only to feel a trickle in my bladder. Not enough to require a trip to the toilet, but more than enough to keep me awake.

  I’d also decided we’d keep the drinks to a minimum as Dad, trying to relay a sense of calmness by casually chatting about other flights on the departure board, had revealed his nerves with a couple of trips to the bathroom in the short time we’d been there.

  I needed something to distract him. Thank you, duty-free.

  As Dad and I made our way through the store, he marvelled at the range of products, the different sizes and, of course, their prices. Dad loved duty-free. He wasn’t even a fan of shopping, begrudgingly taking Mum to the Westfield Shopping Centre in Airport West every Friday night, where he preferred to stand out the front of every shop with an ever-larger volume of Mum’s bags. But here Dad was excited, marvelling at things he would normally never buy.

  His favourite was the 4.5-litre bottle of Johnnie Walker, complete with a stand to assist in pouring a drink from such a ridiculously large bottle. It retailed for a mere $150. Or as Dad put it, ‘Bloody cheap that!’

  Not that he’d know. He doesn’t drink scotch. I doubted he knew how much a regular bottle might be. It wasn’t as though I visited Mum and Dad’s and there were empty 4.5-litre bottles of Johnnie Walker strewn about the lounge room.

  He was the same with the cartons of cigarettes, nodding knowingly as though he was aware how much tax was put on them. Even though we had Europe in front of us, Dad was loving the airport a little too much – the child playing with the box an expensive toy came in.

  I got the sense he would have been happy to go straight back home after this thrilling new experience, not least because he was edgy about what was coming next. Aside from this being his first ever international flight, most of Dad’s knowledge of foreign countries came via documentaries. And I enjoy a good doco, but as good as they are at teaching you stuff, they’re also fantastic at planting seeds of fear in the back of your mind. Animal documentaries are the worst of all, particularly ones with names like When Animals Attack, Animals in the Wild and Carjacked by Rattlesnakes.

  Weeks before a holiday in Thailand I watched a doco about the dangers lurking in tropical waters. I knew it was a bad move, but was unable to switch off. When I finally arrived in Thailand I was convinced every swim was going to end with me stepping on the spines of a stonefish and being injected with deadly toxins.

  After a few hours of sitting on the beach, not daring to go in the water, I found the courage. Other people were splashing around without dying and that, coupled with the fact I’d had a few beers and the toilets were further away than the water, encouraged me to take the plunge.

  My first foray in was nice. The waves were gentle and the water was warm (naturally so; I hadn’t peed yet). I relaxed in an instant. That was why I had gone there. To unwind, not to constantly stress about dying in a really painful way.

  Then an unidentified object wrapped itself around my leg. I immediately flashed back to the doco, convinced the odd, enclosed feeling around my leg was a jellyfish. I was sure I only had one or two minutes of pure agony left on this earth. During this panic I let out a squeal no man ever wants to, so loud and high-pitched it brought people running to the beach, looking for a six-year-old girl in distress.

  Convinced these were my last moments, I looked down and saw the jellyfish’s white body puff up, the ‘7-Eleven’ on its side clearly visible. Realising my mistake, I was relieved. Shopping bags are rarely lethal. But I was embarrassed I’d screamed in deathly fear in front of everyone on the beach for, as far as they could tell, no reason at all.

  These days I’m purely land or pool-bar based. Bit of alcohol never hurt anyone.

  This would be Dad’s first ever long-haul flight, quite the achievement for someone in their sixties. His longest flight had been from Melbourne to Cairns, but even that didn’t really count, as it was broken up by going through Brisbane. I could run a marathon if it was broken up into 2-kilometre legs.

  When Dad came to Australia from Germany it was by boat, which, although longer than most flights by about sixty days, was made easier by the fact that he was two years old and completely oblivious.

  He had no memory of that trip, so it made sense he’d be intimidated by a flight of this magnitude, and I chose not to overload him with tips. I’ve always found that once people know you’re about to fly they’re quick to offer advice: drink lots of water, get up and stretch regularly, take your shoes and socks off and push them through the gaps of the seats in front of you.

  I kept my suggestions to the most essential: the neck pillow. For me the neck pillow has been a game changer in the flying game. I couldn’t talk them up enough to Dad. People use booze and pills to help them sleep on planes, and I respect that, but there’s nothing like having something to support your head so you don’t have eight hours of that repeated nod off–head bounce–startled wake-up. Or, if you go to sleep with your head to the side, stretching one side of your neck and leaving you in pain for the first few days of your trip. Neck pillows are the penicillin of the flying world, I told Dad. If someone doesn’t use one, that person is a fool, plain and simple.

  Dad chose not to use one.

  This was typical; Dad was always happy to dole out advice, but rarely took it. Once, when I had a sore back, he suggested I sleep on the floor. Apparently a hard surface was just what me and my inflamed back needed. I knew it was dodgy information, but against my better judgement I tried it. As if the excruciating pain the next morning wasn’t enough proof he was wrong, hunched over in pain I went to my osteopath, who confirmed, ‘Sleeping on the floor’s probably the worst thing you could have done.’

  And so the man who’d never been on a plane longer than three hours said, ‘I’ll be fine,’ ignoring the recommendation of someone who had flown to South America, one of the toughest flights anyone can have the misfortune to take. It’s hard enough to get comfortable for two hours on a plane, let alone thirteen, and the neck pillow at least gives you options. I always try to get a window seat so the neck pillow can work as an actual pillow as well. It’s a beacon of luxury compared to the hessian hacky sack excuse of a pillow the airlines hand out.

  My only advice to those who choose to use one is don’t wear them in the departure lounge. Unless you’re a newborn, you can support your own head while awake. I understand the argument that people wear one because they’re going to sleep on the plane, but sleep is hours away. You’re going to have something to eat or watch a movie first. I don’t walk around my house two hours before bed with my mattress strapped to my back in preparation.

  Though I do wear a condom all the time. Never know your luck.

  Proving once and for all how much of a novice flyer he was, Dad actually paid attention to the safety demonstration. It’s a rite of passage to reach the point where you think you’re too good/ experienced to listen to that. In my head it goes, ‘Blah blah brace position blah blah oxygen will drop blah blah exits are located somewhere!’ It probably wasn’t the smartest approach, considering we were in the emergency-exit row.

  Just being on a plane at all had me concerned for Dad. I couldn’t imagine him being able to sit still for thirteen hours. He’s an ‘up and about’ kind of personality. A tropical holiday beside a pool would be his idea of a living nightmare, unless one of the resort activities was helping grounds staff with the lawn edging.

  Dad’s preference was to be permanently occupied. When I was growing up any downtime was considered laziness. You know, like sleeping in beyond 8 am on a weekend. Dad would do the vacuuming early on a Sunday morning just to annoy us kids, repeatedly banging the head of the cleaner against the bedroom door. I learned quickly that it was a shouting match
not worth entering into, because he would know he’d won, and the adrenaline that coursed through my body would make going back to sleep impossible. So I’d learned to ride it out, knowing Dad would eventually move on, but not before making the carpet outside my bedroom clean enough to perform surgery on.

  But he wouldn’t have any choice on a flight to Europe, which is essentially a twenty-four hour prison stint. We’d be told when to wake and when to sleep, we’d be given the occasional stodgy reheated meal in a tray, sleep alongside a complete stranger, and once every nine to ten hours we’d be allowed to stretch our legs in the confines of a giant, impersonal concrete complex where our every step is monitored. There is always the possibility that you could get bumped up to premium economy for good behaviour, but I think that’s just a legend people like to recount to give people hope. I’ve never witnessed it in real life.

  The only way to pass the agonising minutes as we slowly made our way over the Indian Ocean was with the in-flight entertainment system. I had extra confidence the entertainment system was going to be a hit after Dad’s excitement levels rose pretty high when he was handed a hot towel, and then peaked when this was followed up with a set of free headphones.

  ‘How good’s this!’ Dad said, looking around in disbelief, elated because he’d received something for free (disregarding the fact we’d paid quite a lot for the flight) and because, I would safely say, they were his first ever set of headphones. At this rate the range of TV shows and movies available was going to have us celebrating with a bottle of champagne. Or perhaps a can of beer, once he saw how much a bottle cost.

  Excitement aside, I was concerned about Dad dealing with technology. He has never liked it and will only accept it when he’s left with no choice, like when the analog mobile phone system shut down. He reluctantly handed in his phone that was so old I’d forgotten how to send a text on it. Dad’s certainly wouldn’t be asking Siri for weather updates any time soon. ‘Which one of those women is Siri?’

  That’s not to say Mum and Dad’s house was a complete throwback to another time; they had wi-fi, but as I’d discovered every time I visited with a new or updated phone, no one could remember the password.

  Dad was comfortable with what he knew, and anything else that could help make life more comfortable was waved off as something he didn’t need. For example, he refused to believe in Teflon. Now, you might be reading this thinking, ‘I thought Teflon was the non-stick material that coated fry pans and the like.’ You’d be completely right. Dad claimed it was rubbish, and proceeded to scrub every Teflon pot and pan with steel wool, taking it back to bare metal, going from non-stick to incredibly high-stick. He was adamant Teflon didn’t work, and saw that as reason enough for him to ruin all tainted products. Teflon. It may not wipe clean like it does in an infomercial, but it was a lot better than the scorched-black, exposed steel cooking trays in our house.

  For this trip Dad had to get his first ever credit card. And not just his first ever credit card, but his first ever bank card, full stop. His reasoning was why would you ever want to go into debt to anyone? So carrying around a card created solely for debt made him uncomfortable. I had no doubt that the moment we landed back in Australia he would not only pay off his debts, but shred the card too. Then burn the shredded bits. Even trying to explain to him that EFTPOS cards were only using his own money fell on deaf ears; cards were evil and not to be trusted.

  Instead of cards, Dad still used cheques. I’ve never owned a chequebook, as I’ve always found money a particularly good source of money. On the rare occasion I’ve needed one I simply go down to the bank and get charged a mere $8 for the privilege of them typing one up.

  I didn’t think cheques had a place in modern society, but as I discovered after doing a comedy gig at a lawn bowls club, not everyone agreed with me. Bowls clubs are not known as bastions of the modern world, but no one complains about it because their beer prices are also from 1982.

  After the gig I was approached by the club treasurer to complete the transaction of money for services rendered. Generally payment comes in an envelope, or, if I’m lucky, someone might want to do the handover of cash via handshake. That always made me feel pretty cool, as I imagined myself in a gangster film. (Although it told me I wasn’t getting paid particularly well, as you can’t palm a wad of cash.)

  On that occasion, however, I was confused, as the treasurer pulled something white from his pocket – the colour white doesn’t appear in the cash realm. At a gig like this you might see something yellow, perhaps red or, occasionally, even the completely cool but highly impractical green of the $100 note. But white? The treasurer handed it over saying, ‘Thanks, really enjoyed that. Appreciate you coming along, here’s your money.’

  I’d been handed a cheque. I looked at it, thinking, ‘What kind of economy is this? I performed for you now, so I think it’s within my rights to expect my payment to be as immediate.’ If I had known it was going to be cheque, I would have done all the set-ups to my jokes and then delivered the punchlines in three to five business days.

  I wanted to shout, ‘You think my drug dealer takes cheques, you stupid old fool!?’ Instead I smiled, thanked him and sent a text message to my drug dealer. He doesn’t.

  Dad’s distaste for technology didn’t fill me with confidence for the flight to Munich. But the in-flight entertainment system is one of the greatest inventions of our time, up there with the MRI and hypercolour T-shirts (who wouldn’t want to know where the warm patches are located on our bodies?). And it isn’t until it’s gone that you really appreciate it; one time I flew from Athens to Bangkok with a broken in-flight entertainment system. All we had for thirteen hours was a map of the plane crossing the Indian Ocean. It moved at a rate of around one millimetre every twenty-five minutes, which, while completely mind-numbing, was still better than any Mariah Carey film.

  So once we were underway, it was time to turn the thrilling hot towel–headphone quinella into a trifecta and throw a film into the mix. I informed Dad that before I went to sleep I would set him up with a film I knew he’d like – Expendables 2, an action flick with one of his faves, Sylvester Stallone. I told him that when it eventually finished he should get the attention of the cabin crew and they’d happily set him up with another movie.

  ‘Yep, no problem,’ he eagerly agreed, which from years of experience I knew meant he would do precisely nothing with the information I had just given him. Aside from staying awake and helping him during the entire flight, there wasn’t much more I could do. Armed with two sleeping pills swallowed with my last sip of beer, I checked out of the flight for a few hours.

  I will admit this wasn’t the most responsible course of action I could’ve taken, considering we were in the emergency-exit row and tasked with aiding the flight staff in case there was a problem, but I figured if something catastrophic happened at this altitude the hosties could use my limp body as a test for the emergency slide or to help douse any flames.

  Even with the pills it wasn’t a solid sleep, but I managed to avoid about seven hours of the flight. From there I only had a few more hours to sit through before we arrived in the UAE for our stopover.

  As I slowly woke, blearily looking across at Dad, I wondered what he’d been doing since his film finished, which I calculated to be about five hours earlier. I could see there was something on his screen, but it didn’t appear he was watching. Maybe he was listening to music on the entertainment system, but I figured that was a deep technological dive beyond his capabilities. Perhaps on his first ever flight out of Australia he was able to admit he was out of his depth and had sought help?

  As I shook off the sleeping-pill fog and came fully awake, I got a proper look at his screen. He was indeed in a section other than movies. As far as I could gather Dad had attempted to set himself up with another one but failed. Instead he’d somehow ended up listening to the Koran. In Arabic.

  I’ve not lived at home for quite some time, but I believe Mum would have mentioned
a conversion to Islam. Not least because Dad would have had to give up bacon.

  Eventually we landed in Abu Dhabi for our stopover. For the first time in his above-age-three life, Dad was out of Australia and on foreign soil. Unfortunately for him there wasn’t much to see, as we were in travel purgatory. Our stopover was only slated for two hours, which for a long-haul flight is a quick turnaround. I’ve had connecting flights delayed and then cancelled, forcing me to spend nights in places that would never be on anyone’s bucket list.

  The stopover was still long enough for Dad to expose himself as a first-time traveller. It’s an unwritten rule that when you get off the plane in transit you are to act miserable, avoid eye contact and definitely not smile at anyone. Dad was like a budgie that had been taught to say ‘hello’, smiling and asking everyone he came into contact with how they were. Including the stunned cleaning and security staff waiting on the aerobridge. Judging from their reactions they’d never been acknowledged before, let alone greeted warmly.

  His friendliness brought a smile to my face; seeing that Dad could be so innocent, maintaining a sense of politeness that most of us discard after our second-ever flight, I thought to myself I should follow his lead. But not right away; first I needed to shove my way to the front of the line to get into the transfer lounge so we could get decent seats.

  As we sat waiting for our plane for Munich to start boarding, talk naturally turned to how the previous flight had been. Dad informed me he hadn’t really slept much, which I found strange, as his ability to fall asleep anywhere he likes inspires great hatred in me. He could doze off on top of the speaker stack at a Metallica concert, only for the band to pause to ask him to stop snoring so loudly.

  I assumed he must have drifted off for at least part of the flight, because it was a midnight departure and we’d been in the air for thirteen hours – that’s a tiring stretch for anyone – but apparently I was wrong. With only one movie under his belt, I inquired as to what he had done to occupy the rest of his time (when he wasn’t listening to the Koran).