On the plane, I was very aware that I was about to spend a week driving on the left side of the road, and kept playing little mental games with myself like they tell the big athletes to do before the competition: I visualized myself “winning,” that is, adeptly maneuvering through roundabouts and making confident right turns across lanes of oncoming traffic. I distracted myself from worry by chatting with my seatmate, Daniel, a knee surgeon who spoke very shaky English and was on his way to visit a Tasmanian girl he met on a seven day bike ride through the Andes. Or I think that’s what he said, anyway. Then I turned my attention to the plane food menu (Cadbury dairy milk bar, Byron Bay cookie bars, a Traveller Pie with tomato sauce, Tasty Cheese and crackers, all for extremely bloated prices.) I fidgeted while the flight attendant reminded us to “do up our seatbelts” and tried to read the half of the flight magazine which was in Mandarin and got annoyed because someone else had already done both the crossword and the Sudoku. As the plane descended, I flipped on my video camera and managed to get a panorama of the bridges, houses, and complicated inlets of sea and river that are Hobart.
Stepped out of the plane into a beautiful sunset, and the first thing I noticed was the air. Like most cities, Sydney has a unique smell, not strong, but a little musty, maybe the smell of hot red roof tiles and the ocean with a hint of trash and petrol and busy city streets. Tasmania smells empty, like nothing—clean, fresh, sweet flowers here and there wafting on breezes, but in between, nothing—just wild. It was WONDERFUL. We queued up on the tarmac to enter the terminal and I saw the sign: Tasmanian customs. Why would we have to go through Customs, having just come from the same country? Uh oh...Tassie is an island...Then I saw another sign. “Beware the Tasmanian sniffer dog! If you have fruits and vegetables HE WILL FIND YOU! Fines on the spot!” I instantly remembered two things: first, the Customs fine is over 200$; second, I had a bag of dried apricots, cranberries and almonds in the bottom of my backpack. Oh, no, not five minutes in this state and already I was having run ins with the law...and I hadn’t even seen my rental car yet.
I shuffled slowly forward with everyone else, trying to act unconcerned, and wondering what to do. Then the beagle, which at any other time I would have thought was cute, but which now looked cruel, brutish, and slavering, snuffled at the bag of the man in front of me. The security guard pulled him aside. “Sir, do you have any fruits in your bag...” I seized my chance and walked briskly away. Whoops! Sorry, Tasmania!
With an imaginary hue and cry ringing in my ears, I got my baggage and hurried out through the teensy tiny airport to pick up my Budget car, a little white Kia which luckily was already covered in scratches from the last hapless adventurer, which doubtless would camouflage mine. By the time the paperwork was done—and this car rental cost me almost twice as much as the actual flights to Tassie—the sun was setting and my hands were sweating with nerves.
The hour had come. I sat down, gave myself another pep talk, visualized “winning” (i.e. escaping Tassie with both my life and no major insurance claims on the car), adjusted the windows and mirrors and seat, and rolled out of the parking lot. Verrrrry slowly. Thankfully, the drive to Kyla’s place was only twenty minutes and after a false start or two, and having turned on the windshield wipers instead of the turn signal multiple times, I made it. I kept just below the 110 kph speed limit on the highway, wondering what that was in miles—it sounded very fast. (It’s less than 70 mph...dur).
My GPS worked perfectly and I arrived at Kyla’s place in historic Battery Point just as twilight set in, casting a purple glow over the small, quaint cottages and crooked streets. After pulling off an incredible left -side parallel parking job, I nervously patted the car goodbye til tomorrow, and went for a walk. It was nine in the evening and the sun was gone, but three little children were skateboarding through the neighbourhood, directly down the middle of the road, heedless of anything else. The neighbourhood felt old, quiet, safe.
My last realization before I went to bed was the rather pathetic one that, why yes, I DID have better Internet reception on this teensy sheep-inhabited farming island than I ever have in my flat back in bustling Sydney.
LMAO. Why does the rest of the world have a better sense of humor than us? The sniffer dog. Awwwww!
ReplyDeleteHaha it was the cutest beagle! They put it on the baggage claim later and it was jumping around and walking over the bags and clearly having the time of its life. Everyone was taking photos of it.
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