Farewell to Adelaide

 So we’re at the airport, waiting to board for Singapore. 

A very relaxed, some might say blobby start to the day. Just veg-ing in the room, before our Uber pickup. 

I think we can all agree that Uber is a much more polished product, technologically. Book it, pay the agreed price, then watch the car arrive, all on your phone. You know the name of the driver and the make, model, colour and rego of his car. In a foreign country, language is no barrier, because he already knows where you want to go. 

Brilliant. 

But, just like those of us who use Google maps to go everywhere, these drivers never need to learn their town. That becomes evident when the app isn’t as smart as a local. 

I was following our guy’s progress to us on my phone. His mapped path would bring him out of a side street directly opposite our hotel. Great. Except that there is a fucking great median island down the middle of this 4-lane street. 

I saw him pull up to that intersection. I know the number plate and his location, remember. I went out onto the footpath and waved at him, directing him to the parking bay outside the hotel, exactly where the app tells us both is the pickup point. 

He seemed unsure what to do next. The common sense answer would be to come out and turn left into Grenfell Street, then go down a few blocks to the next lights, or wherever he could “do a u-ey” to come back on our side of the street. I got the feeling that he was expecting us to carry our suitcases across that 4-lanes of traffic, up and over the central island, and come to him  clearly he has not met my wife, is all I will say.

Once he saw that we were not budging, he went back down that side street and cam out a little further along. All this time, the app was telling him he could just cross over to us  

A couple of minutes later, he pulled up out the front. Result!

Then he sat there as I wheeled the luggage out to the footpath. Then a click, as he opened his boot for me. Damned decent of him.

I stood at the back of the car, and he got the message, coming around to put the bags in the boot. I might have expected some impairment from an old geezer, but this guy isn’t much more than half my age. I’ll wait, thanks.

Once all is stowed away, we get in, and his only conversation is to tell us to put our seatbelts on. Off we go.

I thought the radio was on, but no-no, he’s talking on the phone. Actually muttering. The ENTIRE drive he is on the phone. I thought he was probably placating an anxious wife about where he was or when he would be home.

We arrived at the airport (it’s not a long drive), and he quickly got out to empty his boot. Either he got the message  from us or from his wife. Clearly in a hurry to be gone.

Check-in is pretty standard. Only business class get to check in with a person. The rest of us queued for a cluster of kiosks. 

The bagdrop machine is equally sterile, but a little more temperamental. It took a minute waiting for an assistant for it to suddenly burst into life.

The way of the future, ladies and gentlemen.

The airbridge is full of rewords for Singapore, waiting to preboard.

Quell surprise!

Just saw this in the bathroom cul-de-sac

No idea why I would consider that noteworthy 

Murray River

 Doing a day trip to see the environs. 

It includes a stop at a fruit shop called Beerenberg. 

As luck would have it, they have a connection with Sarah’s boss. 

Off to Murray Bridge, for a  cruise up the river. 

Saw some big beasties that would make the world’s largest KFC portions. 

Pretty sure it’s the first time if seen these live.

I’m reminded of a little ditty my father told me once:

A funny old bird is the pelican

Who can hold more in his beak than his belly can

He can hold more in his beak

                       Than I can eat in a week

And I can’t see how in the hell ‘e can

After that, it’s back for a pitstop in Hahndorf.

A bloke shop. Not a husband smorgasbord, more of a man cave. 

The odd old house as well.

The driver was a complete nutter. A pommy import, full of dad jokes. Roy is just a bloody good bloke  

Oh, and we saw 3 unlucky kangaroos on the road through the Adelaide Hills today.

Glenelg

 Another place Sarah wanted to see was Glenelg, a beachside village. 

The easy way there is by light rail. They call it a tram here, but it looks less like the retro trams in Christchurch, than the light rail of Sydney. 

The stop was just around the corner from Adelaide Central Market, so off we go. The tram goes all the way to Glenelg about every 10 minutes. Perfect. 

Sarah wants to stay here if we come back to Adelaide. 

To be fair, though, I was looking for the Ferris wheel. 

Who knew that it only comes out in the summer?

Bugger. 

Central Market

 Today was a bit wet, but was clearing up by the time we set off. 

Not far away is the Adelaide Central Market, allegedly the biggest food market in Australia. 

All good, if you’re into buying fruit and veg. 

Hahndorf

 One of the reasons that Sarah wanted to come to Adelaide, was to visit the little German town of Hahndorf. I don’t know why. Just smiling and nodding.

So, like all transport on this side of the ditch, catching a bus to Hahndorf is pretty straightforward. The bus stop we needed was just around the corner from our hotel, so three minutes walk and we’re ready to go.

A very picturesque drive, which takes about an hour, mostly because of 127 stops along the way. Up and over the Adelaide Hills, and we’re there.

For some reason, Sarah was fascinated with the prospect of having a pork knuckle for lunch. It sounds hideous to me, but it apparently is the thing to do. 

She had it a couple of times in Germany, and then in Prague  

As it turned out, the Hahndorf Inn where we stopped for lunch, sells these pork knuckles, bat they are averaging 1 - 1.2 kg each. With a generous dollop each of mashed potato and sauerkraut. 

It’s intended for one very hungry bloke, or an Insta couple.

As I wasn’t going to help with it, she thought better of the plan and we had some normal food. One fish and one soup.

An Asian girl at the next table ordered one, and spent most of her time photographing it. 

When we got back on the bus, she got on as well, with a brown paper bag. 

Anyway, it’s a cute little village. Worth a visit. 

The bus back was a little traumatic. Clearly the speed signs on the winding road were merely a guide for this driver. 

But we made it back in one piece

Adelaide

 We’re staying on Grenfell St, in a pretty central spot. Well done, Sarah. 

The street behind us is Rundle Mall, a pedestrian mall with a smattering of off street shopping centres along it. 

And some fun things. 

I love the train system in Sydney

 I may have mentioned this before:

I love taking the proverbial out of Australians. They just deserve it. 

But I must give them credit for their Underground Railroad system. Not the slave-smuggling kind. The other kind. It’s probably because we don’t have one in NZ, that it is so impressive. 

Now, before anyone jumps down my throat, Auckland does not have an underground network. They have a train network that occasionally goes underground. That’s not the same. 

The entire transport infrastructure in Auckland has always been shit. Gridlock shit. Every piece of motorway they built, specifically to alleviate gridlock, just moved it, and probably made it worse. I give them no credit when one of their overpriced projects accidentally improves the situation. There’s a tunnel that seems to have helped quite a bit, but that doesn’t make up for the laundry list of fuck-ups that has described the Auckland transport infrastructure over the years. 

I know I’ve said this before, but it’s worth repeating. The first time I went to Auckland, I could immediately see what the problem was. Every off-ramp from every motorway, ended at a set of lights or a stop sign at the top of the ramp. Inevitably, when it got busy, like every morning and every evening, the cars would bank up tat the stop sign, and the jam would quickly feed back onto the motorway, dragging it to a halt. It would probably only take 20 cars waiting to get through that stop sign, and the off-ramp is full.

Anyone with half a brain ( that includes me) knows that every off-ramp feeds into another motorway, or at least onto a road without a stop sign in sight. The Amrikans got this right. 

So, where was I. Sydney. They didn’t invent the concept.

I think the original underground was in London, back around 1863. 

In 1931, Harry Beck designed the underground map that we recognise today. God only knows how people bought the right train before that. Probably not a lot of choices back then.

So the concept and the iconic map template has been around for a while  

Sydney’s first stage, between central and St James via Museum was completed in December 1926. I don’t think the decor of these 2 stations has changed since. Quite the time capsule, those platforms.

The second leg, central to Wynyard via Town Hall was completed in February 1932.

It wasn’t until January 1956 that they had a functional City Circle by opening the Circular Quay station. So no, they didn’t invent the idea. They just copied what had gone before. 

During my lifetime, the defining moment in Sydney rail was the opening of both the airport and the Olympic Park lines, in time for the 2000 Sydney Olympics. 

This is the bit I give them credit for. A spectacular addition for locals and visitors alike. 

More recently, the addition of light rail branching out from Central in 4 directions is the icing on the cake. 

So, the rail systems are intrinsic to the healthy function of the Sydney. The literal life blood of the city. 

Anyway. 

We often stay in Mascot. It has great food outlets around it, and it’s close to HQ in case Sarah is there for work. 

It also has a Subway station. 

Our pilgrimage whenever we’re in town is to take the train into town, and get of at Town Hall station. It’s right next to QVB, and through that to Meyers, David Jones, the Apple Store and Priceline. Compulsory. 

Until it doesn’t work. 

This just happened to be a weekend that they are doing line works on the line that affects us. Rude. 

We arrive at Mascot station rearing to go, and are greeted with locked doors. Bugger!!

Luckily, maintenance is regular, so plan B is always ready. 

Next to the station is a bus stop, with signs saying a train replacement bus will be here soon. And it was, but the queue was long, so it filled up before we made it to the front. 

Five minutes later, another bus arrived, and we were one of the first on. 

Obviously, this isn’t as efficient as the train  each train would carry maybe 3-4 buses of passengers, and they don’t get stuck at traffic lights  

This one had a very chatty driver, who gave out apologies and little packs of mini Oreos. Great recovery service. 

This bus stopped at Green Square and Central, like the train would. As we stopped at the Green Square station, the driver pointed out the hotel where the MAFS cast stayed. He was a little embarrassed that he knew that detail. 

Once at Central, we can take train or light rail to Town Hall. 

After dinner with family, we used the rail back to Central and waited only 10 minutes for our bus back to Mascot. 

No free bickies this time. Bugger. 

Inflight etiquette

 From time to time, you may be on a flight where the cabin crew offer to hang up your jacket before you take your seat. Nice. 

I was going to put it in the overhead with my cabin bag, but sure.  

Decades ago, the crew would give it back to you after you stood up, ready to leave. Perfect timing. 

No longer. They now drop it in your lap before they sit down for landing. What?!?

I should have just hung onto it, so that I can take it down when I’m ready to put it on. Rather than when they decide to tidy up early for a quick exit. 

I’ll try to remember for next time. 

Aerodynamics

The smoother Boeing lines remind me of the Kia. 

I know, right. Who knows what cliffs my Segways will take me over…

Stay with me. 

When the EV was becoming a thing, Kia introduced the EV6. Quite a stylish SUV. It had both aerodynamics and heft, accented by its chiseled panels. Muscular but agile. That’s how it looked, anyway. I could never afford one. Over $100k for a model with a decent array of bells and whistles. 

Anyway, not satisfied with that styling, they had to expand the range. A larger one, I think the EV8, and a smaller one, the EV3. 

Clearly the design responsibility for these new ones went to someone else. I’m thinking a recent graduate with an obsession with the LEGO movie. Or the CEOs 4 year old grandchild. They had the brick-like facade of a Range Rover, something with such a big engine that aerodynamics was irrelevant. 

Unfortunately, a big battery does not substitute for a big engine. Mileage goes down the dunny. 

Anyway, the look of the Airbus fleet reminds me of the aerodynamic performance of a LEGO car

Slug-fest

 We’re on the Airbus A380 today, Emirates’ go-to for most sectors. 

While some plane-spotters get all slippery over the A380, I am underwhelmed. 

Let me know if I’ve said this before. 

I call this aircraft ’the slug’, and I regard it as the ugliest aircraft in existence. No, wait. That abomination that Boeing use to fly aircraft jigsaw pieces around, I think it’s called the Baluga, is definitely uglier. 

So let me modify my previous statement. The slug is the ugliest passenger aircraft  in existence. 

Unsurprisingly, it does not have attractive parents. Look at the nose profile of any Airbus, and compare it to the same profile of a Boeing. 

While the Boeing nose is elegant and regal, the airbus is pugilistic and blunt. 

The lines of the old B747 are aerodynamic and timeless compared to the blunt instrument that is the slug. 

You can tell my age because I look back with fondness for the old Boeing era. Even the little 737 had metal everywhere. Particularly the overhead lockers. Aluminium framing that stayed where it was put. Enter the smaller airbus with everything plastic, and the loudest noise on a flight is the lockers creaking and groaning and squeaking as the thin-skinned fuselage flexes during the flight. 

The introduction of the slug came with great fanfare about the new composite materials, giving a much quieter ride. True, much less engine noise to compete with the squeaky lockers. Good move. 

Off again

 Well, we’re off on holiday again. 

Now that I’ve entered the hallowed halls of retirement, getting time off is much simpler. 

No more fighting an archaic leave system, or draconian ballot process. My time is my own. Or more accurately, my time is Sarah’s. Uber driver extraordinary. 

She’s still working, to stay in the lifestyle she deserves. But her leave system is much more relaxed. 

Anyway, we’re heading to Sydney today, and on Sunday we head off to Adelaide. I have no idea!!! Once the idea starts to germinate, I just shake my head and buckle up. 

After a few days in Adelaide, it’s off to my favourite bar with exorbitant Singapore Slings and peanut shells on the floor. 

Anyway, we’re taking Emirates to Sydney. Sarah’s favourite way to get there. 

Fair warning. If nothing of note happens on this trip, I’ll unpublish it, and wait for a more interesting trip. 

But wait, there’s more

We’re sitting in Klub Koru in Auckland, waiting for our Christchurch flight, so I thought I’d ponder the Air New Zild experience from Singapore.

Like everything in Singapore, the airport is slick. 

Being Koru, we got access to the SATS premier lounge, which I guess is the poor cousin to the SQ lounge next door.

For those who don’t know, SATS is the ground handler in Singapore, and it’s owned by Singapore Airlines.

There has always been a grey area about Koru recognition around the world. There was a time when it meant nothing outside our own network of lounges. Years ago we were turned away from an SQ lounge in Singapore . Gold, business or fuck off. Sarah loved the SQ business lounge in London back in the day when we flew there. That’s how I know that business is on the list for entry.

It seems a little better now, mostly. The staff at checkin had told us to come to the SATS lounge, but the girl at the desk didn’t recognize the membership. The guy next to her stepped in to tell her that Koru was good.

That was the only hiccup on the ground. First world problems.

Boarding was straightforward. Not the hitech gear in some previous countries, but efficient and clinical. 

Once boarding was mostly done, an announcement was made that we were waiting for passengers from a flight from India. Almost immediately, an Indian lady was pushed past us in an aisle chair. Then the drip feed of about a dozen more. I’m guessing they were all off that flight from India. The demographic supported that assumption. 

But where had they been? We all know that wheelchair passengers are the last off any flight, so while they were waiting to get off, the rest of these connecting passengers should have had a major headstart to our aircraft. But they arrived after the WCHR. Go figure.

The flight was uneventful, as it should be. Premium Economy is kind of like Economy, but with more legroom. The industry calls that pitch, and they measure it in inches. No clue.

There is so much pitch, that two things happen:

First, the fuckwit sitting in front of you can recline his seat and you’re not bovvered. In economy? Not so much. Somebody will be leaving the aircraft in a body bag.

Second, the food tray cannot fold down from the seat back. It has to be stored in the armrest. Old school business class.

The in-cabin announcements were done by a guy that sounds like Simon Gault. Maybe he needed something to do after Masterchef NZ finished, and you can’t make a living selling crockery at Briscoes.

Anyway there were 2 staff running our cabin. A younger girl, and an old bloke. Probably Simon.

Simon needs to go back to the kitchens. He was the one handing out the trays at mealtime, when they got to our row, but he never offered drinks. Breakfast or dinner. Wine, coffee, blood of a virgin. Nada. The odd random person around us had a coffee cup on their tray, but not us. Luckily the girl was much better at the whole customer service thing.

When we landed, the crew announced that the domestic terminal would be closed. It was 2330, almost midnight. Quelle surprise!

They did not, however, announce the arrivals belt we should look for. Most airlines do now.

No problem, we found it all by ourselves. We both have a PhD in reading FDDS screens. 

Now here’s something odd, regarding the arrivals hall layout. When you come downstairs from immigration, you go left if you have nothing to declare, and right if you have something to declare. Not hard. Nothing to see here? The odd thing, is that if you turn right (declare), you appear into the arrivals hall, opposite the baggage belts.

If you turn left (no declare) you go around and under the escalator you just rode down, and walk into the same arrivals hall. Just a longer walk. No pre-clearance, no conversation with an official. What was the point???

And then the PAs began. Oh Lordy!

For both our flight and one from Sydney, they began a long-winded scripted PA. OK so far.

A lot of emphasis about picking up all luggage, as nothing is transferred to domestic flights. Great! Too many morons turn up at Christchurch wondering why their bag, which they dropped off in Bumfuck, Arkansas, isn’t here. The whole ‘First point of entry into a country for Customs clearance’  was completely lost on them.

So that PA is a great idea.

But…

They then proceeded to bleat on about taking your bags over to domestic!!! It’s 30 seconds from midnight, you fucking moron. Stop misleading these sleep-deprived and Jet-lagged muppets. Don’t go to domestic, find a hotel!!

No, it wasn’t a recording. It wasn’t done well enough for that. Somebody was reading it, without the slightest consideration for the time of day. This wasn’t just the Air New Zealand staff. The Qantas arrivals staff did exactly the same thing a minute later. They must have an arrival too. Morons. 

My final gripe. The Air New Zealand baggage tracing staff started paging a list of names from our flight. A long list, all Indian. I’m guessing that the luggage from that delayed flight from India didn’t make it on time.

But rather than butcher the pronunciation of more than a dozen foreign names, almost guaranteeing they the people you’re paging won’t recognize their own names, do this…

Do an announcement for those passengers recently arrived from Singapore, who came from the inbound flight XXX from ZZZ, to come to the desk. People will recognize the name of where they came from, before they’ll recognised their own names, because other than the butchered name conundrum, if the page has more than 3 names, people just tune it out. Morons.

I’ve said it before, Jetstar do this in Christchurch. Rather than page the Mcpherson family, they’ll page Mr David Mcpherson, Mrs Mary Mcpherson, Mr Daniel Mcpherson, Miss Sonia Mcpherson, Mr Nigel Mcpherson and Miss Constance Mcpherson.

Fuckwits!!

Oh, our flight has just been delayed for an hour due to crewing ‘issues’, so I just keep writing.

Finished now. Promise.

That’ll do, donkey

Well, that’s pretty much our trip, dear readers.

For the foreseeable, we are just mooching around Singapore before heading home. Despite our glacial return to New Zealand, Sarah is suffering from jet lag. Hopefully, that will have abated by the time we get there.

So I guess, all that’s left is to give a big picture perspective.

Germany was a bit tedious. They are very focused on confronting their past, rather than whitewashing it. A noble goal, but a bit of a downer for tourists. I’ve said it before: 

• They need to focus tours on the historical self-flagellation, or on fun-seeking tourism, but not both.  Certainly not on the same tour.

The Iberian Peninsula (Portugal and Spain) is an amazing history lesson for Catholicism. I never realised that for so long being a Catholic was the only Christian option, and for most of that, it was the only religious option. Someone who is less of a philistine than me would have taken more from the trip.

Sarah found the Northern Spain tour, which basically went from the Montserrat monastery across the top to Santiago de Compostela, following a major Camino pilgrimage trail, to be quite a moving and spiritual experience. Even if the tour guide couldn’t organise a piss-up in a brewery.

Switzerland made us homesick for Queenstown and the Southern Alps.

France was a nice collection of tourism hilights.

Something the French tour guide told us resonated with me: 

• Always greet someone in their language. We were told to say bonjour and merci at every opportunity. This would endear you to the locals, and they would be more accommodating to you than to the ignorant poms or yanks who start every interaction with “Do you speak English?”
• We heard this from all tour guides, encouraging us to learn a handful of useful words for each country. Unlike the euro, there is not a universal language for Europe, if you discount English.

This philosophy resonated with me for one reason:

• I disagree with it!

Think about it… you have been practicing to say bonjour like a local, so you unload it on some poor unsuspecting shopkeeper or waitress. If you did a halfway decent job of the accent, they think you’re a local too. Great, right?

No. Disaster!!

They break into a conversation, and you suddenly look like a complete moron. You didn’t understand a word. 

Now you’re both embarrassed, and the local is fucked off.

You conned them. You scammed them into thinking that you were someone you weren’t. That’s called identity theft, and it’s illegal in most places you can think of.

Here’s my suggestion:

Approach the local with the same cheery demeanour, but instead of saying hi or hello in their language, say it in yours! You have achieved the same friendly greeting, but you have also telegraphed that you speak English, not their language. If they speak English, they will decide if they want the conversation. If they don’t speak English, they can let you know. Either way, you have been friendly and attempted an honest conversation. Your chances of a successful interaction are vastly improved.

Or you could say bonjour so badly that the local will take pity on the simple fool’s wooden attempt at their superior language.

You choose.

That’ll do, pig…

Just found these…

When in Singapore, it would be rude not to check out some of the culture, and not just the peanuts in the Long Bar.

It just so happened to be the time of Diwali there. The Festival of Lights, for Hindus. Actually, they spell it Deepavali. Worth the trip to Little India. The suburb, not the restaurant!!

 

Colourful.

No idea about this guy. He was just there, so sure.

Happy Birthday to her

It’s Sarah’s birthday, and another relaxing day in the heart of Singapore.

She’s been looking at crazy-arsed flavoured cookies at a famous cookie shop here. A few years ago she picked up some crab cookies for The Tok here. Not crab flavour. Each cookie had a crab planted on top. A real crab. 🤮Mildly surprised she got through MAF. Too scared to try that nonsense again.

She’s having her favourite drink in her favourite bar.

Heading over the road to Chijmes to meet little sister again. This is a shopping, eating and historical site smack in the middle of town. On the other side of the complex is a cute little church. You may know it as the wedding location in Crazy Bitch Asians.

While I’m waiting, I noticed a sign inside the compound.

… but more particularly this one.

I know the laws are strict here, but Fuck!!

On our way to the restaurant, we walked past a guy going the other way on a skateboard coming towards. 20’s or older.

As I walked past, I’m fairly confident that I didn’t say out loud “ you do know that your never getting laid until you grow out of that stunted phalic mode of transport.

The restaurant is in an old trader-house, a style popular here years ago.

They ordered something I don’t understand, they order the same thing every time we come here.

The Tok may understand this.

Particularly this thing.

It is some sort of a large nut. You are given a small spoon to scoop the contents out. Tastes kind of like kava but without the anaesthetic properties. Just mud. 

Nice…😝

And then off to a rooftop bar

Boat quay

Had a leasurely day, and then headed into town to have dinner with Sarah’s sister.

Next to the river in a place called Boat Quay.

Just like Dubai, the air is so clear here that everything sparkles. It all just  looks beautiful in the evening

Check this out. Without trying to recognise the map, what is your first clue that this was taken in the Singapore subway?

No?

Check out the top right. Only in Singapore.

Off to Singapore

An ungodly start in the morning, just so that Sarah can be at the airport over 3-hrs before scheduled departure.

I had already checked us in online, so all we needed were bagtags. Our experience with this little detail in assorted European airports suggests that this may hit a snag or two.

Not so much. We went to the bagdrop area, and studied the machine. 

• Scan the passport to find our booking: tick
• How many bags do you have: tick
• Put heaviest bag into the machine to weigh: tick
• Printing bagtag, put it onto bag, bag gone: tick
• Put next bag into the machine to weigh: tick
• Printing bagtag, put it onto bag, bag gone: tick
• Put last bag into the machine to weigh: tick
• Printing bagtag, put it onto bag, bag gone: tick

All went surprisingly well, but this was different. With the first tag, I tried to figure out how to peel the backing. There was no obvious tearing off point. The little graphic on the back wasn’t helpful, it just said press them together. Yes I know that, but I have to peel the backing away, for it to stick. 

Then I saw the fine print on the machine. Do not peel the backing. What?

Just press the two dots at the end tog. What?

OK, then, I’ll play your silly game. I press the ends together, and they stick! What?

Fucking genius!!

No stickiness, no wasted bits of backing paper to throw away. Print it out, press the ends together and you’re done. 

Witchcraft!! Fucking genius!!

I have no idea what kind of coating these tags have, and if they need to be on a roll to keep the surfaces from touching, but it’s next level.

Security still requires that I take out the laptop, so not the latest there.

After that, things went off the boil a little. Signage is not the best. Same problem in almost all airports.

Our gate is in terminal C, about a 5-mile walk from where we are. Sarah wants food, getting hangry.

There is food and a shop she wants to see nearby, but we’re who knows how far to our gate. She wants to find food closer to our gate. It had better be there, is all I can say. Luckily it was, but the shop she wanted to see wasn’t.

Will this become my fault? We’ll see.

 Food seems to quiet the monster, so the lack of decent shops nearby has now become a them problem. Lucky escape.

Boarding was interesting. They are using biometrics to help the flow of passengers, but not for everyone. When I dropped the bags, it asked me to look at the camera for biometrics, which I did. It didn’t ask Sarah. Odd. When we got to the gate, we just scanned our boarding pass, and looked at the camera. I was confident that it would work for me (once I take my glasses off), but thought Sarah might get spit out to an attendant. Nope, she went through too. Maybe they had stored her passport somewhere in the system, so why the scan at checkin. Don’t know.

As we went down the airbridge, I noticed 3 bridges. 

Most aircraft use 1, and in Christchurch we got used to seeing 2 bridges on the Emirates slug. But 3? Go figure.

And 2 of them are for the main deck. Premium Economy must get their own bridge for the nose.

The flight is uneventful, except for the meal tray. It slides out from the side like a guilotine, unforgiving of any kind of stomach. Maybe this is a middle east style of weight watchers. If you can’t fit behind the tray, you don’t get any pudding. The waitress apologises for this being an OG A380. And here’s me thinking an A380 was pretty new. That’s perspective, I guess.

Now on the Paris to Dubai leg, I had decided to watch Star Wars Episodes 1-3. I gre up with 4-6, but didn’t pay a lot of attention to the bookends. So this was my chance. A 6-hrs and change flight should get that done. I fell short on Episone 3 by about 30 minutes, so jumped straight into that once I boarded in Dubai. Then it was on to Episodes 7-9.

Final credits on Episode 9 with 15 minutes till touchdown. Perfect.

Motorcycles

One odd thing about Dubai.

Cats everywhere, scooters everywhere, but no motorcycles.

With one exception:

All motorcycles on the road, and they come in waves, were ALL delivery vehicles. I never saw a single motorcycle that didn’t have a big box on the back. 

Back to the Mall

Dinner time soon, and Sarah went looking for Penny and Sheldon.

To get there, we ventured deeper into the mall than before. It is recommended not to go further than a single turn away from sight of the door you came on, without the use of breadcrumbs.

Luckily, I had this morning downloaded the mall app, which guides you to any shop in the mall. More importantly, it can get you back to your door. Digital breadcrumbs.

On the way to our destination, I doodled a cool display. I usually prefer the creative shop displays to what they’re actually selling, but that’s just me.

Anyway, I saw this:

Cool, huh?

It belongs to a cafe.

Does it look s-Illy?

No?

Philistines!

Anyway, right opposite the restaurant is this.

You can even see a glimpse of from our table

So first course was fried mac and cheese balls. That Mac fella must have been a big guy!!

While we’re on the Asian Prayer, saw this at breakfast this morning.

Tempurag Eggs

No, I hadn’t heard of them either.

But I digress…

Burger and chicken salad sandwich 

Sarah says cheesecake is compulsory here.

Next door is an enormous diabetic coma centre

And people are doing silly things. No not Illy things. Silly. 

For those simple souls who have missed all the breadcrumbs, one last clue.

On the way back out, I saw one of those Botox taxis again