After twenty-five years, you’d think you’d want to sit next to your husband on your anniversary flight. But no, the lure of an economy class bed (three seats) is too much!
I can’t blame her. I’m not the best company when it comes to flying. Too anxious, too busy staring out the window.
At least Alex is still there, playing on his Nintendo 3DS. Not quite as old as our marriage, still considered a bit retro now.
No night in the hotel before our trip this time. It’s gone upmarket and become too expensive. I wake up this morning having had a bit of a disturbed sleep, still can’t eat more than a soft bun.
One last clearing out of the fridge, the charging of devices, then I drive the other two to Padstow with the luggage, before catching a bus to Revesby and the express train to International. Lucky they went early, because the check in systems are experiencing issues and they have to queue for an hour to drop off the bags.
I meet them right after they finally succeed and we head through security, which also has a fair queue, and immigration, which doesn’t. Straight to the temporary Qantas Business Lounge, courtesy of Qantas Club membership. These flights will be the last chance for all three of us to go in before Alex becomes an adult.
He makes himself a sandwich, B has honey-soy chicken and rice, I can only stomach a scone with blueberry jam and cream.
The Vietnam Airways A350 outside the window must be their luckiest: VM-A888.
Our flight departs from Gate 8, near the Qantas A380 heading off to Singapore and London as QF1. That should be us, if we were to do a true commemorative anniversary flight, though ours was a Qantas 747 via Bangkok to London. Instead, we are flying the smaller Boeing 787-9 to Paris via Singapore. Originally via Perth, but weather and Middle Eastern conflict changed the route.
The sky outside has turned from blue to grey. A front is coming, storms are possible. I wonder if we’ll leave before it hits.
I paid extra (in points) to seat us three rows back from the front of economy, at the rear of the right wing. It’s the closest I can get us to the centre of gravity. The 787 is far more modern, if smaller, than the 747 we flew on 25 years ago. It also has personal seatback screens instead of the projected movies of those flights. That shared watching experience was nice, in a way.
Unfortunately it lacks any music, which was the other form of entertainment 25 years ago, listening to your favourite channel on loop. That selection included my song, the one that has accompanied me during many seminal moments in my life.
Of course, now my entire music library is coming with me on multiple devices. Including that song.
There is a little tray for your phone, enough pockets and both USB-A and regular power. The seats are reasonably comfortable so far, but ask me again after we reach Paris.
Cabin announcements are given in both English and French.
Our departure is delayed by the need for a replacement first aid kit. The captain assures us that it should not impact our arrival time, but says nothing about a smooth flight.
Finally, we are underway, taxiing to the southern end of the main runway for a northerly departure, right towards the weather. Up past the domestic terminals, the Botany freight line I so recently rode, the famous Sydney skyline and Harbour Bridge blurred by the exhaust from the engine, past the place where Alex will have his formal the day after we return.
We approach the grey skies. There is extra thrust and we head over the lower cloud banks. The second layer isn’t so bad. Then the seatbelt lights go off and passengers redistribute themselves across the cabin while the crew hand out bottles of water and savoury snacks.
Another layer of cloud is bumpier, without the seatbelt lights being switched on. Then it settles.
Our route heads northwest. When the cloud breaks I can see the sharp volcanic plugs of the Warrumbungles and the white domes of the Australian Astronomical Observatory telescopes.
More cloud. Glimpses of red earth, dry lakes, the sometimes rivers of Artesian Basin.
The main meal is brought around. I choose the roast chicken with vegetables, Alex the twice-cooked beef with jasmine rice. It is served with a soft warm focaccia. I struggle to eat mine, Alex says he is still too full.
The Bulla chocolate coated vanilla ice creams are rock hard. I don’t like their “vanilla” formulation. Then we are given a small TimTam and offered a hot drink, which we both decline.
As the day wanes and the land below gets hazy there are a few bumps in the sky to remind us that the air exists.
There are storm clouds near Mount Isa and as we cross further through the north high cloud stands in our path, bumping and shaking us as we pass though. The spoiler outside my window raises and lowers in response.
There are many storms along our route and likely a lot of high cloud and unsettled skies.
The sunlight fades to a dull grey, rendered blue by the electronic window shades. I drift off for a little, not fully asleep, just listening to music on my MP3 player.
It does get a bit bumpy as we cross the Timor Sea, but there are settled patches as well. The city of Kupang in Timor is a glittering jewel, the boats in the harbour like a stellar constellation below.
The cabin lights are dimmed, but the crew walk through regularly, offering water and snacks. I take a pack of cheese and crackers.
I try to watch Disclosure Day, get 20 minutes in but I think I want to sleep. I’m not sure sleep comes, but it is restful closing my eyes and listening to music instead.
Now and then I glance out to see the lights of Indonesian fishing vessels, brighter than the stars in the sky.
With an hour and a half to go, the cabin lights turn red and blue and it is time for supper. I wave them away. I’m not in the mood for cheese and cauliflower and never in the mood for a beef and mushroom pie.
As usual, it is a bit bumpy as we pass to the south of Borneo with a little more than an hour left.
With half an hour to go we begin our descent. Turning west over Bantam, we then turn right and north over Desaru before turning south to approach Singapore from the north.
It’s a smooth descent, until just above the runway, the furthest west one. No “Welcome to Changi” sign for us.
But we have survived leg one. The next is even longer.