Monday, June 20, 2011

Looooong Weekend

It was a simple plan. Go to Perth to visit my brother over the long weekend, catch a game of football while there, go home. Hell, it's barely even a plan. I plan catching up with friends for lunch with more precision. But like any plan, it did not survive first contact with the enemy, the enemy in this case played by prevailing atmospheric conditions.

We sat through the football, every last excruciating, disappointing, I-flew-four-thousand-kilometres-for-this-crap second of it, went and ate some Turkish food, and went back to the hotel.
His shirt was more fun than the game
There plans were made, of which I was not fully informed, to drive the next day some two hours through orange country to a Benedictine monastery. An orange grove is quite a pretty thing, rows of dark glossy foliage and bright orange fruit on a backdrop of red sienna dirt and flawless blue skies. Five hundred orange groves is the same but really, really boring. The monastery was closed to visitors when we got there, but they let us look at the outside. It was brick.
See? Brick
No sooner had this road trip to end all underwhelming road trips been mapped out than Puyehue Volcano happened. Long dormant, it erupted and filled the sky with ash. I know when a similar thing happened in Iceland with the Great Unpronounceable Volcano, European travel was brought to a grinding halt, but that's Europe. It's tiny and Iceland is in its back yard. An over-zealous barbecuer could most likely create a big enough smoke screen to black out Europe. I was in Perth when Puyehue started, little bits of burning Chilean spite sent halfway around the world to inconvenience me just because I made a joke in poor taste about the miners. I don't remember making one, but it's just the kind of asshole thing I would do. Our flight to Melbourne was in question, but by Tuesday things were looking all right to leave Perth, but Tasmania was shut down. So off to Melbourne to lounge about in a hotel at the airline's expense for a day or two. Or seven, in fact. But then it was five. Oh, how they toyed with us, forcing us to choose flights but always teasing that if we rang back later something earlier might open up.
Weekend in Melbourne. What to do, what to do?
In the end there was time to see another football game, so we did. Every last excruciating, disappointing, I-flew-four-thousand-kilometres-then-turned-around-and-flew-another-three-thousand-five-hundred-kilometres-to-see-this-crap second of it. Then up before dawn, or at least before weekend dawn which is well established to be 10am, to fly back to Hobart. But of course there was the dog, left in the capable care of my sister. Who lives 200km from Hobart. So of we drove through the midlands fog that never lifts into the rain of the north and fetched the dog. Finally, after a trip to get a small dog that took longer than the flight to Perth, we were home.

I actually had a pretty good time.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.