Sisterchicks Down Under (14 page)

“Well, then, since she’s counting on it, I guess we can’t let her down. You won’t have to go to the wedding, if you don’t want, and we can stay several extra days to play.”

As I predicted, Tony was all for the excursion. He drove Jill and me to the airport the next Friday and added his encouragement for us to have the time of our lives.

I kissed him good under Gollum’s gruesome gaze, grabbed
my gear, and followed Jill into the Wellington airport for the second time that month.

The clerk at the flight desk asked to see my visa. I pulled out my credit card and handed it to him.

“No, your visa, if you don’t mind,” he said in a weary voice, as if one too many travelers had pulled the same prank on him. I wasn’t trying to pull a prank. I only had one credit card, and it was the Visa I held out to him.

Jill leaned closer. “He means your visitor’s visa for Australia.”

“We can buy our visitors’ visas here, can’t we?” she asked the clerk.

“Yes, of course. And how would you like to pay for that?”

I held out my credit card for the second time. “May I pay for my visa with my Visa?”

Jill stifled a giggle by coughing to cover it up. The clerk took my credit card without comment. Some sort of giggle enzyme must have kicked in at that point. I tried to swallow the impulse to burst out laughing and kept my mouth shut, as Jill and I purchased our visas with our Visas.

From then on, everything seemed funny to me. Maybe it was like a nervous tick. Or perhaps that’s what happens when two mama chicks start flapping their wings. All the feather fluttering turns into a merciless tickling of each other’s funny bones.

Once we were on the plane with seat belts fastened, Jill adjusted the magazines in the pocket in front of her to make more room to cross her legs. A bag fell out of the cloth pocket and landed on my foot. I leaned over to pick up what I assumed was the airsick bag and was surprised to see it was a mailer to send in film for developing.

The top of the bag had two statements in bold red and
orange letters. The first statement read, “Introductory Photo Offer Only $5.99.” The second announcement was, “If affected by motion sickness, please use this bag.”

I laughed and showed the bag to Jill. “Talk about making practical use of a bag! You can either use it to get sick, or you can use it to mail in your film.”

“But it probably shouldn’t be used for both,” Jill said. “Oh, look at this line: ‘Please take this bag with you and pass on to family or friends.’ ”

I looked closer and read the rest of the sentence for her. “… pass on to family or friends if you are unable to use.’ That’s a very important phrase:
if
you are unable to use, then you should pass it on.”

“Right, because if you did use the bag, not for the film developing option but for the
other
option, you might not want to pass it on to your family or friends.”

We laughed so hard neither of us could stop. It was silly. I didn’t care if people were staring at us. Jill and I were off on a lark, and this was only the warm-up.

The giggle enzymes were at peak effervescence as we tried not to laugh at the flight attendant who pointed out the emergency exits with the routine dignified pose of her two fingers stuck together.

I asked Jill for a tissue to wipe my dripping nose, and she offered me the photo developing bag, which we tore in half and shared in the absence of tissue.

“I don’t think any of my family or friends would like me to pass this on to them now.” Jill folded up her bit of damp paper sack. “I’m not sure what to do with it.”

I rifled through my magazine pocket, pulled out my photo bag and turned it into a trash receptacle.

“Yet another use for the amazing, multipurpose, mail-in-your-film-developing-slash-motion-sickness bag.” Jill said.

Giggles spent, we settled in like more respectable adults, as the pilot announced that this would be a three-hour and forty-minute flight.

“You know, I always pictured Australia and New Zealand right next to each other,” I said. “I didn’t realize they were so far apart.”

“When you meet my brother-in-law, don’t tell him that’s what you think of Australia. He’s lived there for thirty years and considers himself an Aussie.”

I noticed that Jill said the word
Aussie
the same way I would say
Ozzie
, as in
Ozzie and Harriet.

“They really are two different countries on two different continents,” Jill said. “Kiwis and Aussies don’t link themselves together.”

“Well, that’s good to know before I try out my New Zealand slang in Sydney.”

“And exactly what New Zealand slang were you thinking of trying out?” Jill had lived in Wellington for six years and still sounded like an American. I’d been there two weeks, yet I was the one collecting slang terms.

“Okay, test me on this. See if you understand my use of Kiwi terms.” I cleared my throat and pieced phrases together. “Last week I went to the chemist next to the dairy and was so buggered I got the colly wobbles and had to use the dunny before I could buy my cotton buds and sticking plaster.”

Jill cracked up.

“Don’t laugh,” I said. “Translate for me.”

“Okay let’s see. Last week you went to the drugstore next to the 7-Eleven, or corner market. You were so tired that you
got that nervous, queasy feeling in your stomach and had to use the restroom. Then what did you buy? Oh, wait, I remember. Q-Tips and something else.”

“Plasters.”

“That’s right, plasters. Band-Aids. I must say, Kathy, that’s pretty impressive.”

“We all have our hidden talents, don’t we?”

“I’m not sure that
sass
is a God-given gift, but if it is, you are doubly blessed with it.”

Our flight ended with a steep landing. Since our seats were in the middle section, we couldn’t see out the windows and compare the view of Sydney from the air with the view of Wellington. The little snatches of color and light I did catch from the window seemed to be lots of blue water and red-roofed houses dotted everywhere.

Jill led the way through customs where a trained dog sniffed every bag that came off the luggage carousel. We turned in our paperwork, answered questions about whether we had food, plants, or animals we were bringing into the country, and made it to the car rental booth before most of the crowd.

With a distinctly different accent from the one I’d been adjusting to in New Zealand, the rental agent asked, “Will both of you be driving, then?”

I may have jumped at the chance to drive Beatrice on an isolated, two-lane road in Wellington, but being cleared to drive on a motorway in Sydney in a rental car was too intimidating at the moment. At the risk of losing all my newly acquired “cool” status, I turned down the offer.

“No worries,” the clerk said. “We’ll just, process this for you now.”

“I’m a little nervous,” Jill said to me once we were in our
small silver rental car. “I’m used to driving in Wellington, but this might be different. You keep an eye out for me, okay?”

We went slowly at first, merging into the traffic and heading for the motorway.

“Do you know where you’re going?” I asked.

“Downtown. Start watching for the signs that say Sydney.”

I fiddled with the map, turning it upside down and right side up until I finally found the airport and traced the route to downtown Sydney.

Looking up at the next street sign, I said, “I think we’re going the wrong direction.”

“Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure. See if you can exit and turn around.”

I continued to track our route on the map, as Jill exited and tried to point the car in the correct direction. Due to road construction, we had to take an unexpected turn, and neither of us could figure out how to get back on the right road.

“This is a nightmare,” Jill said, as we inched along through another construction zone. After fifteen minutes in the thickening traffic, she said, “It looks like we can cut over onto another highway. Can you see the name? Is it one that will take us downtown?”

“I’m not sure. Can you pull into that hotel driveway for a minute so we can look at this map together? I’m completely turned around.”

The only place for our car was in front of the hotel entrance. A valet came over and opened my door.

“Oh, no. Sorry,” I said. “We’re not staying. Just trying to find our way.”

“California girls, huh?” the young Aussie said with a tease
in his voice. He probably made that comment to all American women.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, we’re two born-and-raised southern California girls.” Jill reached for a pinch of that cheerleader charm. “And we’re lost. Can you show us how to get back on the motorway? We want to go to the Vacation Inn at the Quay.”

“No worries. That happens to be one of our hotels.” He launched into a fast-paced set of directions complete with hand motions and a wink for each of us before he said, “G’day” and sent us on our way.

“Okay, we turn right here.” Jill put on her blinker. “Then what?”

“I don’t know. I couldn’t understand him. I thought you understood him.”

“I thought you were listening.”

“I was listening.” The enzyme giggles were returning. “But I didn’t understand a word he said.”

“Okay. You know what?” Jill checked her watch. “I’m going to return this car.”

“I don’t think the car is the problem.”

“Very funny. I still think we should return this car.”

“At the airport?”

“Yes. Look at the sign. We’re right back by the airport. I’m terrible at directions, and getting lost all the time is going to ruin this trip for us. I’d rather spend the money on public transportation or a taxi and not have to worry about driving everywhere.”

I appreciated Jill’s candid evaluation of her weakness. Had it been me, for the sake of the money already spent, I probably would have gutted it out, gotten thoroughly frustrated, and spent the rest of the trip stressed out.

“What time is the wedding?” I checked my watch.

“At five o’clock.”

“Jill, it’s already four-thirty. Are you going to make it?”

“It’s four-thirty in Wellington, but here it’s only two-thirty because of the time change. I still have time.”

I reset my watch. “Five o’clock seems like an odd time for a wedding.”

“It’s a short ceremony followed by a sit-down dinner. This will work out fine. We’ll return the car to the rental lot, grab a cab to our hotel; I’ll change and then take a cab to the wedding. It makes it easier all around.”

Jill’s evaluation of our car situation felt as if she were offering me freedom to change my mind about something if the situation arose. She just said things as they were and moved on. She didn’t need to be right; she just needed to try possible solutions until she found the one that fit.

I liked that approach to life.

We returned our rental car to an amused rental agent and hauled our luggage around to the taxi stand.

Our driver greeted us with, “G’day!”

“Not so far,” I quipped.

“No worries,” he said, as Jill showed him a printout from her computer with the name and address of our hotel. Off we went, sitting in the backseat and smiling contentedly. We were prepared for a much better start to our adventure now.

Less than ten minutes later, the driver pulled up in front of a hotel and hopped out to unload our luggage for us.

“We can’t be downtown at the harbor already,” Jill said, looking at the reservation. Then she added a humble sounding, “Oh.”

I looked at the reservation with her.

She pointed to the full name of the hotel on the computer printout. “I reserved the wrong hotel.”

“It’s okay,” I said quickly. “It doesn’t matter. We’re here. We can stay at least for tonight. Otherwise you’ll be late for the wedding, and that was the main reason we came.”

“You’re right.”

Just then the hotel valet opened the back door of the cab. “Hey, the California girls are back! Coming in style this time.”

Jill and I busted up.

“And this time we’re staying,” I said, exiting the car to show I meant it.

Jill followed me to the check-in desk and explained her reservation mistake. She asked if we could stay there one night and switch to the Vacation Inn at the Quay for the remaining three nights.

After much tapping on the computer keyboard, the young woman at the desk told us that since our reservation had been prepaid on-line through a discount site, we were unable to make any changes.

Jill’s brow furrowed, but I said, “That’s fine. We’re here. Let’s stay here.”

I knew that, if I were back in the U.S., I probably would have asked to see the manager. I would have pushed for what I wanted.

But I was changing. This trip was changing me. We were, after all, in the place of “no worries,” right?

When Jill whooshed out the door forty minutes later in a gorgeous blue outfit and with a whiff of gardenia-scented perfume, I walked into the bathroom and smiled at the bathtub, my favorite “no worries” machine.

T
he bathtub in our Sydney hotel room
was longer and higher than the standard-sized tub—and it had whirlpool jets. Having a bathtub in our hotel room was a treat for me, but having one with whirlpool jets was a double delight. I ran the water and rummaged around for something to use as bubble bath. The hotel provided shampoo, shower gel, and mouthwash in small bottles but no bubble bath.