Arrival in Sydney was a big CF. Everyone rushed to the nearest bathroom, like is
usual after a long flight. There were four stalls in the one I entered, but
someone was sick in one stall, so we were down to three. I wanted to go before
getting my backpack because that’s one less thing to stuff into the stall.
Immigration is always busy,
with everyone trying to get his passport stamped first. As usual, they had
separate lines for citizens and foreigners, but there were signs pointing in
opposite directions indicating where foreigners should go. I went where the
permanent sign pointed so was in the right place. Then I had to wait for my
luggage, and with a double-decker plane containing 88 rows,
there’s a lot of luggage.
Once I finally got my backpack
(for whatever reason, my luggage is almost always toward the end), I hoisted it
onto my back and turned toward customs. Oh. My. God. The number of people
trying to get through was atrocious. There were two lines merging into one, and
by lines, I mean large blobs of people. I decided to take the airport up on a
free cart. At least my blob was the smaller of the two, so I may have gotten
through a little easier.
Fun fact: You’re not allowed to bring food of any kind into Australia. They tell you on the plane that no
food is allowed, including food you receive on the plane. There are quarantine
bins throughout the terminal. Most countries don’t want you bringing fruit,
vegetables, or seeds in, but I’ve never heard of confiscating mints and granola
bars.
I marked on the customs form
that I had no food, left my trail mix on the plane, and crossed my fingers that
they wouldn’t search my bag and find the chocolate bar because I read that they
search everyone regardless of what you mark on the form. Apparently, I don’t
look like a food terrorist, so they let me through without checking my bags.
Once through customs, I
walked out to freedom. Work and Travel Company,
whose program I’m using, had indicated my program included airport pick-up, so
I was expecting to see a driver with my name on a sign. No such luck. By now,
it had been over an hour since the plane landed, so there was no way the driver
was that late.
I turned on my phone to see
if I had a message. Nope. I tried to jump on the airport’s wireless to get the phone
number because I had forgotten to put it in my phone before I left, but there
wasn’t much of a signal and they were asking for my email address to “keep in
touch with me” (aka send me spam), so I asked Airport Help. He said there was
another exit and to check there. Nope.
I was fed up, so I just got
a taxi. I hopped in the back and closed the door before remembering that
Australians sit in the front seat of taxis because of “egalitarianism.”
Oh well, too late.
