What women think - April 2006

Up up and away Babe

The trouble started the minute I was checking my bag through for a phenomenal international join the dots style flight. By join the dots, I mean I wanted to end up in Vienna but because I was travelling on points courtesy of my father, I was required to travel Brisbane to Sydney to Singapore to Frankfurt to London to Vienna. Changing not just planes but entire airlines three times.

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Already I had placed my sense of couture through the fashion house wringer. This being due to the fact that I was doing a few quick hops through Europe before settling down in London for a week or so, and as such had been instructed by those We're Cheap But Reasonably Confident To Get You There Without Crashing intra-Europe airlines to carry max 15kgs.

How can I pack for four weeks, for visits to headline Brangelina type locales such as Rome, Paris, London and New York in only 15kgs. My shoes and make up alone weigh 15kgs and that's when I'm going to Byron for the weekend.

Who sets these weight limits? Babes wouldn't do that to other Babes. It has to be the Blokes. But any Bloke who has had a girlfriend for more than 10 minutes would know that a Babe can't pack in 15kgs.

Lover Bloke OTM (Of The Moment) was chivalrously ferrying me to the airport. I wanted to believe his reason for doing so was to carry my 15kg bag but also wonder whether he was angling for quick farewell carpark shag. How blokes live in constant hope.

He asked me no less than three times if I had in my possession the Golden Three of International Travel: passport, tickets, money. Yes, yes, yes (times three).

Naturally the moment the check-in person asked to see my passport, I was utterly incapable of producing it. I had my passport wallet. It contained some irrtating document from DFAT telling me essential travel tips such as homosexuality not being permitted in some countries (this clearly is important to know...) but no passport.

In an effort to prove to both Lover Bloke and my parents that I was a) responsible b) organised c) adult and d) capable of international travel, I had photocopied my passport several times in order to leave copies with important people. And in doing so, left my passport on the glass of the photocopier at home.

When the reality of my stuff up dawned on me, I did the only honourable thing. I burst into hysterical, wrenching sobs, the volume of which incurred the attention of other passengers, a Channel 7 news team, Rove McManus and the ground crew in Sydney. And the Brisbane airport manager.

Lover Bloke took charge. Now, he's a big bloke - stands near on two metres, wears steel caps to work, shaves his head and looks like a bouncer. We went to a wedding last weekend and I made him dress all in black and wear sunglasses so that he would scare other guests into thinking he was part of some Melbourne mafia ring. It was fun.

No one messed with him. He sorted out a later flight for me, rang my parents to ask them to go via my place to collect the offending passport en route to seeing me off and got me a quadruple scotch on the rocks. All within ten minutes.

I mean, 9am on a Sunday isn't such a bad time to drink massive quantities of hard liquor surely. Somewhere in the world it was past noon and if I ever got my hands on my passport I'd be at one of those places in person shortly anyway so it was almost ok.

Mum and dad arrived, tickets and boarding passes were sorted and issued, my father gave me a somewhat odd look re my drink but it could have just as easily been a look of jealousy as it could a look of admonishment.

"Darling," my mother says sweetly, "did you manage to pack your overcoat after all? I thought you were going to carry it on to save weight in your bag."

Second bad thing of the day.

I have this more fabulous than fab camel coloured blanket stitched heavy winter coat which my mother bought in London in - get this - 1955. As I was heading to climes that were boasting temperature ranges that started in the negative and inching spitefully towards single digits, such clothing was highly appropriate.

And where was it? On my bed. All freshly dry cleaned. And my parents had been in the room next door just half an hour before. Not fab.

I think I would rather have braced the cold sans overcoat than have my bag lost by British Airways. Which is what happened. As I write this column, I am in my hotel in Vienna, without benefit of sleep for last 48 hours, with nothing to wear but the jeans, t-shirt and Billabong sweatshirt I left Australia with.

I knew how much trouble I encountered racing around all these varying terminals at all these varying airports trying to keep up with my flight schedule. How could my poor bag that contains vitals such as my hot pink pashmina, hair straightners, Europe style party heels and my vitamins be expected to keep pace.

Lover Bloke is joining me in London when I get there for some mother country culture before whisking me off to New York for Sex and the City style mini-break. He has promised to bring a whole bunch of my clothes, shoes and make up with him, but what the hell do I do in the meantime?

Oh, that's right ... I have a credit card (if I may please refer you all to my March 2006 column ...)

Mmm, I have to go shopping. Thanks Julia for that immortal line.

I wonder what time the shops close in Vienna tonight ... ?

Read other columns written by Bron

Bron McClain p 0412 326 300 e bron@bronmcclain.com