There's always a trapped feeling when you know you have to buy food at the airport. Where is the line drawn between "don't want to overpay" and "don't want to starve to death"? Twelve dollars lighter and a mediocre panini later, I'm left realizing there's only an hour left between me and an Airbus A340-300 Jet (go for it, Google Image that sucker) taking me across the Atlantic. My trip from Atlanta to DC was fine - I rode the smallest airplane in my life and enjoyed the window seat all to myself. But anyone can do an hour and a half flight - that's not even the length of a James Cameron movie.
But that next leg of the trip?
So the seventeen hour flight wasn't as bad as I had thought it would be - possibly because my memories of it are a mixture of in flight movies, solitaire, sleeping, and eating three meals. I was on a plane long enough to be fed three times.
Three times.
With real silverware!
I digress. Landing in Johannesburg was an experience. I walked straight off the plane onto the tarmac, onto a bus, and into the customs line of the airport. For the first time the whole trip, I'm unaware of what time it is and I can't call anyone if I needed them. The best feeling of the entire trip was seeing my bright green luggage slowly come shifting their way toward me on the baggage claim carousel.
I walk through the airport. I'm tempted to buy a bottle of wine because it has an elephant on it.
My thirteen hour layover leaves me cold, so I strike up a conversation with the baggage attendant before rechecking my bags. "I have a thirteen hour layover," I begin. He looks at me like I have grown a second head before pointing me in the direction of the information kiosk.
I make the executive decision to get a hotel for the night, because suddenly thirteen hours in an unknown airport leaves a lot to be desire. In a matter of minutes, a shuttle has come to whisk me away to a little bed and breakfast a few kilometers away, where my room is protected by a locked gate and key. Money well spent, that's for sure.
Arriving back at the airport was surreal. I manage my way through security and realize some food would be good. Standing in line at the Wimpy (didn't appeal to me at first, either, but was the only thing open by my gate), I order a breakfast croissant and a chocolate milkshake.
The man behind me laughs a little and comments, "Isn't it a bit early for a chocolate milkshake?" He's rubbing is forehead a little; after all, it is 5am here in Johannesburg, and I stuck out like a sore thumb with my order.
I just smile and reply, "It's never too early for a chocolate milkshake. Besides, my body is still probably on its own time zone."
"Where from America are you from?" he asks.
"Georgia," I reply, waiting on my chocolate milkshake to be made. "It's 10pm there." I felt further explanation was necessary to justify my chocolate milkshake order.
"Then it's too late for a chocolate milkshake! Where are you headed this morning?"
"I'm flying to George, but I'm ultimately going to Mossel Bay."
"Ah, for holiday?"
"Internship."
He looks me up and down a little before asking, "What for?"
"Wildlife photography," I respond.
"First time in the country? South Africa?"
"It is."
He laughs like he knows a secret that I don't. "You're in for one hell of a ride, then! How long?"
"Five weeks."
More chuckling before he adds, "Mossel Bay is nice, though. You will enjoy yourself." I thank him and take my milkshake and croissant to sit at a table to people watch.
He passes me moments later, large cappuccino in hand, and leaves me with, "I hope you don't run into any...unfortunate circumstances. I don't think you will, but still. But enjoy your stay! I meant that!"
It was the best chocolate milkshake I had had in a while.
The George airport was but a hop, skip, and a jump away from Jozi, and I enjoyed it unshared by the window seat. Another smooth landing, another exit straight onto the tarmac. The purpose of this story was really to say that my luggage and I safely arrived in Africa. And that the first animal I have seen is a dairy cow.
And ultimately, I now choose sleep over lunch. My body doesn't want to eat lunch at 6am anyway (it's 1pm here, but it doesn't know that yet).
-K.
