Sunday October 19th.
Banging on the door woke me after just a couple of hours of sleep.
“Housekeeping.”
“Go away.”
“Sorry to disturb. It’s Housekeeping.”
“Come back tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
I didn’t get to bed until 4am after messing about at the airport and filling out paperwork to initiate what is called a “world-wide luggage search.” But it’s a lovely sunny day here in Malta.
Climbing out of Los Angeles
Useful information displayed on the map, like the location of historically significant shipwrecks
My room has a balcony which overlooks Balluta Bay and as soon as my knickers dry I’ll go for a walk on the tree-lined esplanade. I might as well enjoy the day, because the shops and offices are all closed for the weekend. Meanwhile, my list of essentials to purchase on Monday grows and grows.
Why didn’t I fly with Air New Zealand years ago? It might be that this airline never appeared on my radar before. I’d always flown Virgin Atlantic – despite the horrors of Sydney KSF Airport and the inability of the air conditioning to cope with the mass of humanity in the security and immigration area – because VA were nice to me. I’ll forgive pretty much anything if people are nice to me.
The economics of the airline industry unfortunately dictated that Virgin Atlantic would no longer fly to Australia after May 5th this year, so I had to find an alternative… and came up with Air New Zealand. It would be a different way to travel, first to Auckland, then to Los Angeles and to Heathrow, thence to Malta, but I’m always up for a challenge.
A blood-red sunrise over the eastern North Atlantic
Before I go on I should qualify my next statement. I don’t wish to be unkind, but the traditionally held expectation that cabin crew must be young and good looking was well and truly dashed on this latest flight. A very nice natured Nana and Gran’pa looked after the centre cabin and I wanted for nothing.
Not being a red-blooded male, I never think along bottom-pinching lines when it comes to cabin crew (though I’ve had mine pinched on more occasions than I can count, way back in the days before such mischievous behaviour carried the death penalty). These old darlings were so good at their job, so kind, patient and efficient that I wonder at the wisdom of airlines’ earlier insistence on youth and beauty. And I’ll bet they don’t get their bottoms pinched.
On the long sector from Auckland to Los Angeles two of the most adorable Gran’pas looked after the centre cabin. Pa Kettle and Paw did it all with such grace, all on their own and nothing, but nothing was too much trouble.
It’s unfortunate that this fine airline will probably bear the cost of my lost belongings eventually, which is very sad because I am convinced it is the fault of the brutally incompetent stupidity of the concentration camp that is Los Angeles Airport transit system. I mean, where else in the world do you have to pass through immigration, locate your luggage on the carousel, pass through customs with it, then check in all over again – when you’re in transit and your luggage is tagged right through to your final destination?
There’s another thing. Why did every undersized Mexican look at my MLA luggage tag and ask me if I was going to the Philippines?
How many times did I say, “No, MLA is not the 3-letter airline code for Manilla. MLA is for Malta.”?
The standard reply would be, “Where is?”
Balluta Bay. Absolutely perfect.
But it is a beautiful day here in Where-is, and I wish my knickers would hurry up and dry, so I can get out in the Mediterranean scented sunshine.
Tomorrow I shall wake up in a much better mood. I’ll have had a good, long sleep and it’ll be Monday, so I’ll be able to get a few things done. I suspect I’ll shop until I drop, knowing some other treasurer will foot the bill. Yay!