Across The USA by Dodge


An Australian's Journey to America



Chapter 1
I'm Leaving On A Jet Plane

You know what the worst feeling in the world is? Well, I'm not sure, but ranking right near the top would be hopping on a plane for a fifteen hour trip ... then as the plane taxis down the runway, having the feeling that you've forgotten something!

Well that's just what happened to me in 1992.

passport"I think I dropped my passport in the departure lounge,
I think I forgot to pack any clothes,
I think I forgot to pack my travellers checks. [Note the spelling, we're going to America, baby!]"




Saturday, July 11th 1992.
Sydney

After a long time dreaming and planning and saving and paying (for the air fare plus pre-paid hire car for seven weeks, a hotel for the first week and the airport transfer) and armed with a wallet full of Karl Malden toy money (Traveller's Checks), a new passport with a freshly stamped visa and a geeky photograph, insurance, international driving permit and the over-packed luggage it was finally July 11th.


The day starts with a drive to Sydney then there's the trouble finding a car parking spot, the check-in, the departure tax, the over-priced duty free shops and ... lunch. Are they kidding with those prices? Fish and chips for $7.50 or a pluto pup for $3.50?



After a long wait and then saying goodbye to my family, I walked through the doors that led to the departure lounge and into another world -- the twilight zone, for sure.

visa"Stand behind the line, do not move until called." Some sour-puss customs inspector droned in a robotic voice then calls you forward, looks at your passport and slams a stamp onto the first page so hard the desk shakes. "OK, you can go." What a pisser of a job -- you have to stand there and deal with all these people who are excited and about to head off to exotic locales all over the globe.

Walking along the seemingly endless concourse you expect to see a plane skidding across the tarmac like in "Flying High". ("Airplane!" in America) Flight 123 from Mexico will be arriving at gate 3, gate 4, gate 5, gate 6.... Well, at least that's what flashed through my mind.


Waiting, waiting, waiting. "This is excruciating but it'll be worth it once we get on the plane" you keep telling yourself.

boarding pass1530. Time to board. Waiting, waiting, waiting. Sit in the plane for more than an hour. "This is torture." 1645 Australian time or 1645 Hawaiian time (the day before, of course). Then finally Continental Flight 16, a DC 10, inches forward onto the tarmac. "Here we go." Then all the thoughts go flooding though your head no matter how hard you try to stop them. "Oh, this plane's gonna crash, I just know it. I should have flown QANTAS, Raymond Babbitt said none of their planes have ever crashed." Was that a Langolier out there?

Before you know it you're in the clouds but it isn't long before you just wish it would end and you could land and touch the ground in the U.S.A. and start the adventure.






Well, there was never any fear of the plane crashing except maybe for one brief moment an hour out of Hawaii when the plane did a vertical drop for what seemed like thirty seconds but was probably just a tenth of that. [I read a report on plane crash statistics -- only 6% of crashes occur during cruising (which meant the majority of the 15 hours in the air is relatively safe) while 5% of crashes occur before take-off (Huh? That wouldn't be too bad because you haven't got far to fall) then there's 39% during the take-off or initial ascent while 50% occur during descent and landing.]


There wasn't even any fear of America, despite the horror stories that get bandied around in Australia of gang warfare, serial killers, mass murderers, postal workers, drive-by shootings, car-jackings, bombings, muggings, beatings (by the cops), random assaults and other assorted ways to kill the tourists. Reading a couple of travel guides before I left, it sounded like the chances of getting mugged or shot were about 99 in 100 and you almost think maybe you shouldn't go.

It's drilled into your brain, for example, that you don't read a map in public or gawk around at buildings or directional signs because the bad guys will know you're a tourist and attack you. Don't ask strangers for directions (they're all strangers to me) and make sure your rental car doesn't have any signs or plates signifying that it's a rental. It's all in any tourist guide!


And of course the L.A. riots were still burned in everyone's mind from just six weeks before. Scenes of innocent bystanders or motorists being beset upon by angry hordes and beaten by baseball bats is a chilling thing to have tattooed on your mind but L.A. was remarkably free from visible signs of what had happened when I got there.

And then there were the earthquakes to contend with, after all half of California was just waiting to drop into the ocean as the Big One drew inexorably closer.



Man o man, do those hours ever drag. You're just about climbing the walls, your eyes are hanging out trying to sleep in an upright position, trying to keep down the airline food as you watch the movie or listen to the music channel.


Hawaii

Finally, Hawaii loomed large and the plane landed in Honolulu without a hitch at 0530 their time. Then the minutes ticked by again as you wait for your luggage that hopefully didn't get sent to London by mistake. It arrives and you breathe a sigh of relief then you toss it onto a cart for re-direction to LA. Then there are dogs everywhere sniff, sniff, sniffing around.

Then you line up with your immigration form and customs declaration card and passport in hand, follow the green line if you have nothing to declare, follow the red line of you're a murderous drug smuggler and want to go straight to jail. That line was remarkably free.

Then there's the Customs checker. Talk about asking a million and one questions.

What's your name? (Isn't it on the passport?)
What's your destination?
What hotel will you be staying at?
How long will you be staying in the USA?
What is the purpose of your trip?
Do you have means of supporting yourself?
Exactly how much money do you have?
That much huh? Any chance of a loan?
What's your shoe size?
What's your favourite colour?
When are you going to depart the USA?
Do you have health insurance?
Do you have anything to declare?
Are you carrying drugs or other contraband?
Do you have an infectious disease?
Do you intend shooting the President?
Do you intend seeking work while in the USA?
Will you marry me?

Have a nice day!


You get herded back into a courtesy shuttle bus that whisks you from one side of the airport (international) to the other (domestic) and you notice the time is now 0630. Waiting, waiting, waiting then board Flight 2 headed for LA at 0720. Then another long, long wait for the plane to get ready. (Hey, I know the pilot has lost the keys. "Gee, I'm sure they were in my pocket when I got up this morning." "You sure you didn't leave them home?" "Oh, here they are in my brief case.") Then you take off and the time has slipped to 0820 or 1120 LA time. Hey this is getting confusing.

The another five hours fly by and ...




Chapter 2
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