No rules, just right

Yes rules, actually: Americans must secure a travel visa in advance before stepping foot in Australia … or boarding a plane to said destination. This comes as a jarring surprise to learn while standing at the British Airways desk in Sea-Tac, 90 minutes before departure.

I’d figured, hey, it’s Australia! White English speakers, just like us. Suppressors of indigenous peoples, just like us. I go to Europe without a visa, and Australia is kind of the bastard stepchild of Europe, so no worries, mate. Who knew?

Luckily, the Aussie visa application is online and approved instantly for only a few Australian dollars. I complete the whole process in under 20 minutes. Trip saved! Except that the near-disaster is so unnerving, I inadvertently leave my envelope full of cash for the trip, as well as a fairly decent-size check from a client, on the seat next to me at the departure gate. Fortunately an alert custodian finds the money, along with my shoes and socks, pants, shirt and daypack. My belongings are promptly sent aboard to me in first class, where I have already donned the pajamas and slippers that are provided for each of us elite travelers.

That very last part is actually true: so far I’ve scored three sets of really comfortable pajamas. Justin, you want some? Plus I’ll another pair on each leg back.

I won’t belabor the fancy-pants British First topic anymore, except to share the surreal experience of waking up early over poor, squalid India. Seven miles above the muck, our cabin is darkened so as not to disturb the other passengers all snuggy-warm in their full-length beds of 100% Egyptian cotton … and I am cranking Foo Fighters’ “Monkey Wrench” through pretty-decent head phones. My foot is tapping to what I think is the beat, and then I realize that the plane is shuddering violently. Air pockets. The Firsters slumber on. Later we have breakfast. To Vivaldi, this time:



NEXT: Back on the ground, in all ways, in Bangkok