My Nightmare Trip Home From Aussie

I’m still recovering — two weeks later!

0630: Tuesday, December 20, Sydney Australia

My alarm goes off announcing the end of my vacation. I’ve no idea where 26 days have gone, but that’s why the saying ‘time flies when you’re having fun’ exists I guess.

It’s a ten-minute walk and an hour train ride to the airport from my Dad’s place, so we set off around 0730 with my overloaded suitcase. I’d already ditched some goodies that weren’t essential takeaways from the land of Oz, but the suitcase still tipped the scales by three kilograms. Fingers crossed they’re wrong — or the check-in agent is forgiving.

0845: Sydney Airport

The automated check-in counter rejected my passport. I was directed to join a queue to be processed manually.

The problem? Having dual citizenship and the airline can register only one passport. I used my New Zealand (NZ) passport to enter Australia to avoid paying for a visa; returning to Canada, I have to use my Canadian because I live there.

It always causes trouble.

Forty minutes later, only two people had been processed through the manual check-in. I summoned the agent wandering around with a basket of Air New Zealand lollies, helping customers navigate the automated check-in. The candy gesture was lovely — but I was miffed about the wait.

After pointing out the queue hadn’t moved — and there was a family of four with copious bags and skis ahead of me — a third agent arrived and opened a counter. 20 minutes and a phone call later, my two passports were linked, my boarding pass issued, my overweight bag flipped off as unimportant — it was 3.6 kilograms overweight — and I could finally go and have a late breakfast with my Dad and Frances.

1030: Sydney Airport

After fighting back the tears as I said goodbye — I hate those goodbyes — I joined a swollen lineup for passport control. I inadvertently plopped my Canadian passport on the automated processing screen. The big ❌ appeared simultaneously with a noise similar to television gameshows announcing elimination.

I’m not stupid, but I will blame this oversight on emotions. To exit the land of Oz, I needed to use the same passport I entered with: my NZ one.

I knew that; my brain misfired.

I was herded off for a manual exit — that is, with a human being — and was then directed to join a mammoth security line.

Like cows heading to the milking shed — or porky piggies to the slaughterhouse — we snaked our way through to the conveyor belt, where we dumped our most prized possessions for scrutiny. As they traversed past specialist eyes, we stood like criminals with hands in the air as some highfaluting machine swivelled around us, searching for contraband.

Then came the trek to my gate, where the first of many delays were being announced. At least the walk there was intriguing…

1315: Sydney Airport

Um, hello! I’m meant to be on my way to NZ eh?

After boarding, we sat idle on the plane for over an hour. The pilot declared the delay was due to the lack of manpower to load the cargo.

I’d finished watching the two last episodes of a great little NZ comedy ‘Good Grief’ before we even took off. I discovered this gem flying between Auckland and Sydney; It’s about a funeral home and well worth watching if you can.

I love — and miss — the dry sense of kiwi humour.

1800: Auckland Airport, NZ (1600 Sydney time)

The pilot clearly put his foot on the pedal, shaving ten minutes off the flight. Three hours later, I embarked on a marathon walk to reach another security clearance before stepping into the shopping zone at Auckland airport.

I swear they parked our plane at the farthest possible gate, but I was happy to be getting my steps in considering a good chunk of time was being spent on my arse in an uncomfortable seat in an aluminum tube.

I had plenty of time to snap up some treats for my family and friends at over-exorbitant airport prices. I’d staked the joint out on my way over, so I knew exactly what shops to hit.

Once at my gate, an announcement indicated the catering truck was holding up our departure. We can’t do 13 hours without food! Not a biggie delay for me; I was spending the night in Vancouver, so I didn’t care what time I got there.

I sent Rodrigo S-C a quick message, saying I would be heading north soon. I was excited to be meeting him and his wife at some point during my 24-hour stopover in Vancouver.

I was a bit shocked when he replied he was hoping to be able to get out of his driveway, as they’d had a large dump of snow a couple of days earlier. Snow? In Vancouver? That’s just wrong! We determined I’d reach out once I landed and see where he was at. I certainly didn’t want him risking life and limb to get to the airport.

An hour later, we were finally rolling down the runway. My new neighbour and I were ecstatic when the doors shut, as no one occupied the seat between us. Yay! We had room to stretch out and get some much-needed sleep.

At this point, I’d been on the go for 12 hours and was ready for some shut-eye.

0500ish Sydney time, somewhere over the Pacific Ocean, 22-odd hours since I left my Dad’s

Sorry to interrupt your sleep folks. This is the Captain speaking. Unfortunately, I have some bad news. Vancouver airport has seen a record amount of snow overnight, so they are struggling to clear the runway. Although we may be able to land by the time we get there, we are worried that we won’t have access to a gate for you folks to disembark, so we’ve decided to divert to San Francisco.

Sleep? I hadn’t had a wink of it. Yes, I dozed but could not get comfortable. All that space somehow hindered my ability to obtain an optimal sleeping position.

When the lights snapped on moments before the announcement, I knew something was up as the breakfast service typically starts two hours before landing. We weren’t due to land in Vancouver for another three hours.

The rest of the cabin was rudely flung from their slumber, and the moment the words ‘diverted to San Francisco’ was uttered, a collective gasp bounced from business to cattle class. Afterward, an animated babble ensued. Everyone was trying to process what this meant for their individual travel plans.

If Rod hadn’t told me about his plight, I think I would have been more dumbfounded. Vancouver winters are typically wet, not snowy. Knowing the situation was out of my hands, I decided to keep cool and go with the flow. There was absolutely no point in getting panicked or thinking too far ahead.

I officially became a human puppet, at the mercy of an airline and Mother Nature.

1200: San Francisco (0700 Sydney time)

After landing in San Francisco, we sat at the gate awaiting US immigration to decide how to ‘handle’ a plane full of passengers who weren’t meant to be in the land of the free. Many NZ citizens didn’t have the necessary electronic preapproval (ESTA) to enter the country.

Thirty minutes later, the Americans were allowed to disembark; there was only a handful. Another twenty minutes ticked by before everyone else was allowed off the aircraft. We were filed into a separate processing area from all other arrivals at the airport and waited patiently to be processed.

It took forever to get to the front of the queue, but I have to say I was impressed that the US immigration could muster up six bodies to take care of our unexpected situation.

Of course — me, being me —, I added my two cents worth about my Nexus application when I finally got to the border guy. It was all in good humour, and he had one to boot. He wished me luck, suggesting that a federal transaction was practically impossible to reverse.

Sigh.

1345: San Francisco (0845 Sydney time)

I joined yet another queue, this time at the Air NZ check-in counter to be redistributed to another flight. There are strict aviation rules regarding crew rest, so the option of waiting for Vancouver to clear and reboarding my plane was out.

Thank goodness. Later, our Canadian newspapers were full of horror stories of passengers trapped in planes for 12 hours or stranded at their gates. The terminal looked like a refugee camp, with weary travellers strewn over the floor with a body part of some description protecting their suitcases.

I was so tired but somehow found the energy and patience to keep myself together, even though a woman behind me spent the whole time mouthing off how useless Air NZ was handling this and that she had a right to know what was happening.

I said it only once, although I was ready to deck her after 90 minutes: Madam, they are doing their best, considering they don’t even know what’s happening!

Once at the counter, I was given a hotel voucher for the night with a promise that Air NZ would send me an email with a new itinerary. As I headed off to the airport shuttle, a couple who was behind me in the immigration queue was standing where I was 90 minutes earlier. They were one of the many ESTA folks who took some time to process immigration.

Ouf! Thank God for my Canadian passport!

1600: San Francisco (1100 Sydney time)

Finally, I was at the hotel, a short drive from the airport. Due to the volume of folks suddenly descending on the premises, the shuttles could barely cope. Not an ounce of common sense or etiquette was on display as everyone pushed and shoved to get a spot in the vehicle. My patience was nearing the end of its remarkably long rope.

At the reception, I was given three meal vouchers ( $50 for supper, $25 for breakfast and $35 for lunch) and a room with a view of the airport and San Francisco Bay.

After a couple of phone calls with my family — who were aghast at the situation — I resisted the temptation to sleep and instead took a nice walk along the waterfront. I desperately needed to freshen an exhausted mind.

I stopped at the bar on my way back to grab a glass of wine. Crickey! By the time I converted the currency and factored in the taxes and tip, the beverage cost me $27! I’d been spoiled in Australia as taxes are included, and items always were less when they appeared on my credit card.

After a much-needed shower, more phone calls and a meal down at the packed restaurant, I climbed into bed. However, I still hadn’t received any information regarding my next flight which was disconcerting. For what time was I meant to set the alarm?

I settled on 0530, knowing that there was a direct flight to Montréal leaving at 0800. My fingers and toes were crossed that there was a seat for my bum on that plane.

0030: San Francisco (1930 Sydney time)

My phone pinged as I was on the cusp of blissful slumber. It was Air NZ with my new itinerary: I was departing at 1255 for Montréal via Minneapolis.

I was glad they weren’t sending me to Vancouver but perturbed I was heading directly into bad weather — and not on that preferred direct flight. I’d been watching the news and knew there was another big storm forecast across a large chunk of the midwest and the Great Lakes.

Great. Just great.

Of course, I was then wide awake. I tried calling Air NZ to see the alternatives, but I couldn’t connect. In the end, I again decided to go with the flow. I was going to have to pack more patience and stamina for the next 24 hours.

0930: San Francisco ( 0430 in Sydney; 44 hours later)

I joined another lady for breakfast since there weren’t any free tables available. Our chat made me realize how lucky I was: I was heading home, and it didn’t matter if it took days. Judith from Wellington, NZ, was heading to Banff for a white Christmas with her son and his girlfriend. Their plans were poised mid-air since Air NZ could only get them to Portland. Vancouver airport was closed.

I know they were not the only ones whose festive plans were on the brink of disaster. That family with the bags and skis in my Sydney check-in line was on my flight. A young mom with two small children in tow was waiting for the shuttle. Two elderly women commented they had missed their new flights as they were asleep and didn’t get the message.

I felt for them all — and the poor sods stuck in planes and gates at Vancouver airport. I really was pretty darned lucky.

1100: San Francisco ( 0600 Sydney time)

I arrived at the Delta check-in counter, and everything went smoothly until they put my bag on the scales. The agent informed me I would have to pay $100 US because my bag was overweight.

I knew the lovely, lenient Air NZ clerk’s decision to let my overweight bag through at Sydney airport was going to bite me in the arse. But, I’ve always operated on the ‘if you don’t ask, you don’t get’ philosophy.

I explained my situation to the agent, reiterating I was not meant to be in San Francisco. He sent over his superior who immediately fluffed his feathers to show who was boss.

Uh oh! I’ve trouble here.

He was not particularly nice and had an ‘I don’t give a shit about you; you’re in our care now, and you go by our rules’, attitude.’

I had to flutter my eyelashes and dig deep to charm this dude to let it go. For $100 — US to boot — I could’ve put more shit in my bag in Australia!

It worked.

Phew. That would’ve really ticked me off and spiraled me into a nasty mood for the day ahead. Who knows how I would’ve reacted if that interaction had gone sour? I was operating on minimal sleep and would not have taken kindly to an unsympathetic businessman.

This lark is price gauging at its finest — and the reason why people travel with three carry-ons, get away with it and piss me right off!

Regardless, I had a feeling it was going to be a long one.

1300: San Francisco ( 0800 Sydney time)

I’m sitting at the gate, and, of course, the plane is delayed. That’s three for three.

I amused myself using Rod’s 100 random thoughts prompt seeing how many I could knock out in twenty minutes. It’s in my drafts — I’ve been so zonked, this is my first story since I’ve been back, and it’s taken me forever to write it!! I’ll get to publish one of these days.

We were well over an hour late departing, but I didn’t care. I was happy we took off! Every inch travelled across the USA meant I was heading in the right direction to get home.

1915: Minneapolis ( 1215 Sydney time)

Unlike Vancouver, Minneapolis is used to snowstorms; we landed with large flakes swirling around us and a solid amount of snow accumulated on the ground.

A chunk of passengers scurried off the plane first, in an attempt to connect with their imminently departing plane to Amsterdam. Once I disembarked, I located the screen to direct me to my next gate.

Flight DL4465 delayed until 2130

Yup! I knew this was going to happen. Four for four, now.

I found a restaurant to grab a bite. $54 Canadian for chicken fingers, fries, and a glass of wine. Ouch.

By the time I got back to the gate, the departure time was displaying 2200. Then 2230.

Sometime later 2300.

Fortuitously, there was a desk-like set-up near my gate. I plonked my butt down and took out the annoying chrome book that I had borrowed from my son for the trip, only for its convenient size. When you’re used to a Mac, Chrome is painful.

I used the time to finish my Christmas story and send it for publication. I started it days ago, but found the keyboard configuration annoying — plus it’s hard to write when you’re not 100% focused. I had a feeling I was going to be shattered when I eventually made it home and knew the subject was timely.

Keeping busy saved my sanity.

Honestly, I was pretty sure the flight was going to be canned any minute, and I’d be sleeping on the terminal floor. I doubted I’d be so lucky to get a hotel again.

2330: Minneapolis ( 1630 Sydney time)

A weary gatekeeper jovially announced the plane we were waiting on had finally landed. She jokingly complained about needing her bed.

No kidding. That makes two of us!

I was still dubious that this meant we were leaving, knowing Delta could pull the ‘crew fatigue’ number since the flight arrived almost four hours late. To boot, Montreal’s Pierre Elliot Trudeau airport has a curfew.

But no! The passengers disembarked, and ten minutes later, I was sitting on a piddly regional jet for my ride home. The last of nine flights in 26 days. The last of nine timezone changes and thousands of miles travelled. (Still trying to do the math on the exact number!)

YEE HAH!!! This is happening!!! I will be sleeping in my own bed in three hours!

0105: Minneapolis ( 1805 Sydney time)

Not so fast honey!

It was an hour and twenty minutes before we took off. The weather was shite outside, and we had to line up to be de-iced. Watching the action through a foggy oval window, I was reminiscent of the horrible tragedy at Teneriffe in 1977. Agreed that the disaster wasn’t in Winter, but the conditions were ripe. Planes seemed to be taking off on a runway rather close to where we were perched.

I had to trust the pilots despite knowing bad weather often plays a part in aviation disasters.

I’d also done the math; I figured it was going to be 0400 before I crawled into bed.

MY BED.

0500 Montreal time ( 2100 Sydney time, December 22)

We landed in Montréal just before 0400. Again, the plane parked at the farthest away spot possible, so it was a long trek to get to customs and immigration. We were one of a handful of flights that had — presumably — been granted permission to land, given the state of the weather throughout Canada and the USA.

Was I thankful? You bet.

No lineup for declarations. Not even a wait for my bag.

62 hours after leaving my Dad’s house in Sydney, I opened my apartment door.

I’m home. 🙏

1800; January 3, 2023. Montréal

I started this story a few days ago, but I’m out of practice writing, and my mind is still fuzzy, so it’s taken me ages to put this whole shemozzle into a readable scribe.

I know I was extremely lucky that Air New Zealand made the decision to divert to San Francisco and I was not stuck on a runway in Vancouver in the freezing cold for hours.

I don’t know for a fact, but I’m sure many of my fellow passengers on flight NZ 24 had their travel plans dashed or seriously curtailed. They may still have had a white Christmas, but not exactly how they planned.

I feel for them. I know I was one of the lucky ones.

Despite my trip home being less than ideal, I still made it, pretty much 8 hours after I was meant to get home. However, I lost sleep, a hotel booking in Vancouver — it was meant to be 24 hours to chillax and recharge — and an opportunity to meet Rodrigo S-C and his lovely wife. I was extremely disappointed about that, but c’est la vie. The best-laid plans are often curtailed.

I cannot stress enough how important it is to pack a bag of patience these days when travelling. I’ve calculated I spent almost 12 hours waiting in a queue to be processed through check-in, a bag drop, security, immigration or a shuttle bus. That doesn’t include the extra hours spent waiting at a gate for a plane to arrive or start boarding, or sitting on a plane waiting to take off.

However, there were many positive and interesting thoughts that came from this extraordinary situation:

• I never had to wait for my bags — and they weren’t lost!
• Aside from ‘breakfast’ Judith, I met some wonderful people; the young lady from Thunder Bay who was heading home after six months in NZ; a polite and considerate young man who was heading back to Canada after attending bible school in NZ; Phillip, the Bahamanian Global Express pilot, who chuckled with me at the hotel shuttle bus pandemonium and impatient travellers. Even the ‘madam’ in line behind me who mouthed off about Air NZ will be forever etched in my mind.
• Sitting back while waiting allows one the opportunity to watch — and listen. It’s fascinating observing human behaviour, especially in ‘crisis mode.’
• The best-laid plans do go to custard, but it isn’t the end of the world.
• I love my bed.

Folks, I had a wonderful holiday with my family, but after this marathon ride, I’m mighty glad to be home and don’t want to see another plane for a while; well, for two months when I head to Paris!

I won’t lie that this story was a b— — — h to write because of the time zone changes. I’ve done my best to make it reader-friendly. Sorry, too, for the long read but 15 minutes to summarize 62 hours …?! You’re welcome to hit me with complaints in the comment section.