Leaving on a jet plane

Flying’s a breeze, the hair-tearing problems come with departure and arrival, writes Linda Thompson

You know what I hate about travel? Airports. They’ve been designed by people who know the ropes by heart, and not with the freshly departing or newly arrived and jetlagged in mind.

Jet noise, rushing people and endless security checks. Airports can get your trip off to a really lousy start.

Running late (thank you Auckland traffic, even though I put an extra hour on expected drive time) I race into the international terminal, leaving grumpy husband somewhere in the car park because he couldn’t figure out where to drop me off.

Limited vision means I can’t read the gate number, which is right down the end of the concourse. Fortunately a lovely woman who helps the harried showed me how to check myself in, changed my seat to something less awful and read signs for me.

Arrive in Brisbane, and we wait for bags. A snotty little airport jobsworth sneers “haven’t you noticed no one else from this flight looks like you? Your carousel is way down there.” Actually the people sitting next to me were Chinese, so no, I hadn’t noticed, you smart alec.

And besides, the sign saying what carousel — a frivolous word for something so vital — was behind us.

A friend and I landed at the stunningly designed Denver airport a while back.

No one said we needed to get on a train to get our luggage. We made the same circuit to no- where several times before someone told us. How about a sign saying “get on this whizzy little train to where we’re hiding your luggage”.

Ditto in Hawaii, where no one mentions you need to get on a bus to get to your gate. When you’re leaving on that deadly Air New Zealand flight at 1am, that’s a really useful detail.

I can never find the duty-free booze collection point, which doesn’t have a sign saying that’s what it is, and you need a Customs person to escort you back through the barriers to get the gin.

In Hong Kong, a uniformed man with a gun warned me I had “scissor” (folding ones which barely cut), which he confiscated. A Spanish woman was also accosted along with me — she had “tweezer”.

But that airport does have enormous signs saying “north” and “south”. Helpful.

Hong Kong lets anyone in with barely a glance. In the US it’s “welcome to America. When are you leaving?” and a “please come with me ma’am” for a more thorough examination of your threat level.

And security, where you strip off in front of strangers, get swiped by a whistling wand that doesn’t like the metal bits in your hip while you stand like a sacrificial lamb, arms out, almost in your undies, your laptop, camera and spare knickers spread along a bench.

Then there’s dropping off a rental car when someone is picking you up. Rental parking is one-way, with nasty little spikes if you try to drive out. And heaven knows where the picker uppers are supposed to go. Let’s not start on parking charges. Just as you swear you’ll never go through another airport nightmare in this lifetime, you arrive back in Auckland at midnight.

There’s the sound of a gentle karanga of welcome, familiar birdsong and you walk through a beautifully carved entranceway with the stories of our country along the walls.

Home. Plane: An Airbus A380-800. The 17-hour slog which delivered me to Dubai two hours previously had gradually eroded the excitement of my first A380 flight. Amazing to think one of these things can take off, weighing 560,000kg. Class: Economy, seated on the lower decks. My brother, the editor of this magazine, wouldn’t know how to find these seats. He’s usually hobnobbing upstairs in the premium seats. Well, I’m more a man of the people than him and this is fine for me. (And yet I can’t help wondering . . . ) Cost: Cheapest fares available through the airline at the moment for Auckland to Madrid, with one stop in Dubai, are $1889. That’s return, in Economy Class. On time? We were scheduled for 8hr, 15min and touched down three minutes ahead of time. All up, that made for a 27-hour stretch from Auckland to Madrid. Ouch. Seat: I was in 47C, which put me next to the aisle. On long flights, I love gazing out the window at the world below so I passed half of the flight at the rear of the plane. From there I caught an incredible view of the great city of Alexandria. Fellow passengers: A few hundred Spaniards gave the flight some life with their banter. Their patriotism was equalled by my relief when the arid plains and olive groves came into view. How full: Completely full. Younger generations of Spaniards rediscovering the world their ancestors once conquered. Entertainment: They seemed to have the lot. I opted for the simplicity of a Western, The Magnificent Seven. It’s not bad. Service: Top notch. A medical emergency saw the crew swing into action and they were all totally professional, summoning a doctor from among the passengers. The crisis passed and the crook bloke soon looked fine. Food and drink: I was hungry. After 20 hours in the air, my throat pretty much felt like it’d been blowtorched. Remember to drink plenty of water, people. The breakfast went down well, followed by a Kit Kat. Toilets: In first-rate condition. I always find it impressive that these things can be well maintained, considering we’re 38,000ft in the air. Where does it all go? Doesn’t pay to think about it. Luggage: My luggage in the hold clocked in at 7kg. My brother urged me to pack more — but it’s just not necessary! What does he even do with all the crap he carts around? ( Ed: Clean undies, change of shirt — you should try it sometime.) Airport: Spanish Customs have always amused me and I wasn’t let down on this journey. Barajas Airport is a no-nonsense, in-and-out place free of the duty-free conmen and coffee stands. Would I fly again: With the fast transit in Dubai, this would be among the quickest ways to get to Spain. Do it, people.