cup noodles (cathay pacific)

The first time Phet and I went to Asia together we travelled with Cathay Pacific and we were introduced to the apex of in-flight dining: the cup noodle. Just picture it...you're about 30 000 feet above the earth and you're breathing other people's recycled air. You woke up about eight thousand years ago and you still haven't gotten to lie down yet. Your eyeballs are gritty and your nose is threatening to bleed from the lack of moisture. You've had too much coffee. Your personal hygiene is taking a dive. You're about to snap.

And then a vision. A perfectly manicured, tastefully made-up, and calmingly beautiful woman comes towards you and kneels down with a tray in her hands. She smiles politely at your dishevellment and, showing her pearly teeth, asks "Cup noodles?" Bliss! The warm styrofoam cup is so comforting. You curl your hands around it, soaking up the heat like a tramp in front of a roadside fire. You wait the tantalizingly long five minutes until the noodles are cooked, then you peel up that layer of paper ever so gently. The steam rushes out and you breathe in the delicious aroma of chicken broth. Then you snap apart your wooden chopsticks and dig in. Ahh. I tell ya, even first class can't beat that experience.

The rest of the trip was fine. We'd gotten off to a good start in Bangkok by leaving at a reasonable hour in the morning and getting out to the airport on time. We were checking in at a relaxing pace when an airline dude came around pasting up signs saying that our flight to Hong Kong would be delayed. We would have missed our flight connecting to Toronto if the check-in agent hadn't been very helpful and shifted us onto a plane departing earlier. Then, we had to get through the passport check and run to our departure gate. Phet's knee took a beating - I'd zipped ahead with the bags and the tickets, but he was left carrying / dragging Ji down the endless corridors. Once we'd finally huffed and puffed ourselves aboard we enjoyed the in-flight services.

In Hong Kong I played Executive Traveller and went for a massage and a shower while Phet dragged Ji around the duty free shops. Heh heh. If you are ever travelling through Hong Kong be SURE to have a shower. They rule! Nine bucks US and you get a nice set of puffy towels and your very own marble-floored, brass-accented shower room. You can shower in super heat and with super water pressure for twenty minutes and the only rule is don't pee in the shower or you'll be fined 2000 dollars. Which kind of makes you wonder as you shower, how do they ascertain whether urination has taken place? Do they have a urinalysis drain? Do they sniff the stall when you're done? Is it all just a hoax? Whatever it was, I played it safe. After I was a tender shade of lobster red, I repaired to the beautifying room and then I was so ready for the cross-Pacific flight.

The flight itself was not bad. We had mini-TVs, Ji slept well, the food was decent, and the cup noodles were stellar. Buuuut we hit a snag in Anchorage. When I'd booked our tickets I was adamant that we would NOT stop in the US, no way in hell, no siree bob. But all the other routes were fully booked. I have had the crappiest luck getting through the States. The Americans live in this weird universe where they are like 'tweedledeedum, we are the only important people in the whole woooooorld and we are not going to follow the game plan that everyone else is on, cause we, like, don't want to, and pass the malt liquor and the cigarettes and my rifle.' The US is the only place I have ever travelled to where there are no transit lounges. In every other civilized airport (ie ALL INTERNATIONAL AIRPORTS IN EVERY OTHER COUNTRY I'VE BEEN TO) if you arrive, and you are leaving on another flight right away, you are guided to a transit room. You do not have to pass through customs or immigration because of course you are not staying in the country. You are leaving. Right. Away.

But not in the US, no way. They wanna know who's passing through. I've travelled with Ji when he was still a breast-feeding, bawling infant, and I've had to get out all of my giant bags, drag them and Ji and the stroller and our carry-ons through endless line ups, and had to deal with nasty inspectors, only to turn around and get on my next flight, having spent exactly NO time outside the aiport. This latest stop-over in Anchorage beat all, though. First, they said we weren't going to be allowed to get off the plane. We are sitting on the tarmac, with real fresh Alaskan air only inches away, but we were supposed to stay aboard so as not to cause any trouble. So, we're all stretching crankily when the flight attendant came on over the PA to tell us that the customs officials had demanded that everyone get off the plane to go through immigration, and that all the bags would be checked as well. All this for a flight that was stopping for FUEL in the US. Like, nobody was getting off in Anchorage. We were all checked right through to Toronto. We hadn't even expected to be allowed to step off the plane on American ground. But there we were, getting herded through the immigration cattle shutes. Which basically sums up why I hate travelling via the US.

So: two and a half hours later, everyone has checked through, the bags have been checked, all connecting flights have been missed, and we are graciously alllowed to reboard. Nice. [On the Road-17-August-2005]