I’m very happy about our film being in the festival, and I remember when we applied, thinking it would be the perfect excuse to see Australia. But now that, amazingly, it’s worked out, my ignorance may just be too much for me.
Ignorance is fine when you have tons of money. You can get the most expensive tickets and figure out the rest when you get there. But we need to be smarter. I did some Web research and figured out that if we only have two weeks, we probably need to stick with Western Australia. Trying to see Sydney, much less New Zealand, would be like going to New York and LA on the same vacation.
Okay, good. So I know enough to call the travel agent recommended by the festival. Fest guy says they’re super-friendly and if you tell them you’re with the festival, “They’ll be even nicer!” I love them already. They’re Aussies. They’ll get me all sorted out.
I have to call in the evening, right? They’re 13 hours ahead? That’s what the time zone website said. Really, 13 whole hours? Okay, so it’s 10 pm here, so it must be 11 am there?Except it feels like midnight here because I’m still on Vegas time and I’m so sleepy but I’ll just call real quick and get this going. Their Aussie directness will cut right through my confusion and point the way. Okay.
I open Skype and dial. It rings! Someone answers! She says something I don’t understand.
I say, “Uh, hello?”
“Um, do you guys… I’m calling from Chicago, in the states? And I was wondering if you help people coming from here to there?”
“Sorry?” She sounds like she’s talking from inside a Best Buy. Did I call the right number?
“I… Um… I was wondering, do you work with people who are planning a trip not from Australia, but who are going there?”
A pause. I consider rephrasing one more time, but can’t think how.
Then she says, “Yes, we can help with that.” But she doesn’t say it all warm and fuzzy. She says it like she’s waiting for me to tell her what I want. I realize I don’t know what I want. I don’t know our exact dates. I don’t know if we want to stay in one place or two or three. I don’t know if we want to rent a car. I don’t know our budget. I want them to tell me what to do and how much it will cost and then tell me how to do an even better version of that for cheaper, so I feel like I’m getting a deal. I want her to sound like she’s sitting in a small, homey office, sipping a cup of tea by the fire, with all the time in the world, instead of like she’s next in line at the Geek Squad counter and doesn’t want to miss her turn. She says, “Hello?”
I say, “Um, you know what? I’ll call back. Thank you.” Before she can thank me for wasting her time, I hang up.
Dave walks in, carrying a plate of cake. “What did you find out?”
“Nothing.” I walk downstairs.
He follows. “I need help with this cake.” It’s magnificent strawberry cheesecake from First Slice. But I feel like too much of a loser to eat it. “I’m not hungry,” I say, and flop on the couch.
He sits next to me and I watch him eat the cake. Small bites of whipped topping and strawberry middle and thick graham cracker crust. I’m only a little mad at myself for hanging up on the travel agent. Mostly I’m mad at myself for being so intimidated by the prospect of going somewhere that’s not Europe. It’s so far, and so expensive, and it would be so much easier to just not go.
And that makes me think of my mom, may she rest in peace, the Queen of Just Not Going. I always said I wouldn’t let that happen to me. I used to tell her how wrong she was and how I’d never end up like her and here I am thinking, it’s just too hard. It’s just not worth it. No point in going through all that. It’s not like it will affect how the film does. And to make it worthwhile I’d have to network and introduce myself to people at cocktail parties, and what could be worse?
Yep, better to just not go. Just like Mom. Though she would have eaten the cheesecake. Maybe there is hope.
I just ate the last of that cheesecake for breakfast on Saturday and Sunday. It was excellent as breakfast. With the fruit in it I almost convinced myself it wasn’t that bad as a breakfast either. And maybe you should try a US based travel agent for booking the trip? That is assuming travel agents still exist. Haven’t used one in perhaps 10 years or more. But I certainly think you should use the excuse to go. You don’t have to be the Queen of Going, maybe just the Duchess of Going. Perhaps you can stay with Django’s relatives.
Australia? You MUST go. Enough said.
That is, of couse, unless you get raptured this Saturday.
We’re definitely staying with Django’s kin, especially since that’s all we can afford after the airfare. If we go. If.
Oh, I forgot about the Rapture. That’d solve everything!
The duchess of Going, compliments of the Rapture. I like it.
First of all: YAHOOIE! Yippeee! Hip hip hoorah! I’m so very proud of you! Heeee Haw! …
Next, you MUST, MUST, MUST go. If John says you must go, then by all means, you MUST go. He is the Prince of Not Going. Not quite enough resistance to be the King. I understand the not-going-factor … There is Battleship … there are comfy couches … there is a warm, cozy house … there is Django … and they will ALL be there when you get back, beaming from your magnificent, life-changing Aussie experience.
So so proud of you, my friend!
well, after i got fired in saudi arabia for reporting 3 women late to class and one for telling me “i could burn in hell” i had the option of returning to my mother country OR trekking in nepal — on my bucket list for a VERY long time … i became the queen of going … and now i am here …really HERE until i find a there…. how was australia?
Leave a comment