I booked my tickets two weeks in advance and my accommodation just a handful of days before the big day.
No one in Australia does that. For instance, my friend booked a week’s stay in a cabin far, far away—five months in advance. That’s normal.
And here I was booking flight tickets to Tasmania, about to spend ten days in a city I knew nothing about. In hindsight, I’m proud of myself for choosing Launceston—it’s a delightful place to visit. But even until the last moment, the day of my journey, as I sat in the back seat of the cab, looking out at Canberra’s iconic welcome to Autumn, I wasn’t excited. Even as I went through security check, I was more alarmed that we no longer have to take out our electronics for screening than I was excited about my upcoming trip.
Sitting in the plane, watching the ground become bigger and bigger as we soared into the sky, I felt nothing. My glasses fogged from me breathing through my face mask, but I had the best seat in the house—the window. Still, my insides felt like a balloon that failed to balloon.
It didn’t feel like I was going away on holiday.
I landed and walked into the biosecurity area of the Launceston arrivals zone. And I texted my trusty friend and brother: Launceston Airport is a massive tent.
We queued up in what looked like a huge white canopy with three podiums with officers checking everyone’s border permit and asking each person individually if they’ve travelled to any hotspots or have any symptoms. It’s incredible how much we humans function on trust systems. Once I’d shaken my head no to all his standard questions, my officer—a stubby man wearing a polo t-shirt and pants—gadded me a card that had some contact information in case I developed any symptoms. I thanked him and walked out—and into the actual airport. It was smaller than the Canberra airport—just two conveyor belts for baggage. Brilliant and easy to find. A good five minutes later, my yellow backpack waded its way to me, and I hoisted it up on my shoulder and turned to face the exit.
Those glass doors didn’t open automatically.
No worries. I’m used to motion sensors not sensing me. I went closer only to realise that the double door had a big circular sticker on either side of the partition with text that read, “Touch to open door”. Amused and highly sceptical, I touched and viola! I was out in the chilly breeze and the sunny outskirts of Launceston.
Following the sign, I turned left, looking for a bus. The airport shuttle was supposed to be waiting for passengers who wanted to go into the city. Instead, there was a van—an approximately 15-seater vehicle with a chubby bald and smiling man waiting outside. On the van, clearly visible, was a sticker that read, The Airport Shuttle. I had to ask. “Is this the airport shuttle?”
He didn’t sneer. He wasn’t sarcastic when he replied, “It is! Where do you need to go?”
“The city, please.” As if that was a destination by itself.
“Do you have a specific place in the city?”
“Ah, yes. The Backpackers Hostel.”
“Sure thing. I can drop you off right at the door. How long are you in town for?”
I told him, and he suggested I go to the visitors’ centre and get myself a walking map. He helpfully added that it’s inside the post office, which I knew was built in the early 19th century and was still functioning handsomely.
I thanked him, paid him, and took my seat. And at long last, I removed my mask and did a full mouth rotation to make sure my facial muscles were still operating. 20 minutes later, I stood outside the hundred-year-old building—just another old building, I realised as I later wandered around town—that was the hostel I’d be staying at.
And then it hit me.
I had ten glorious days to do anything but the things that defined my life.
To be continued…