A journey of 30,000 kilometres begins with a tram ride.

Number 19 (in shot), up Sydney Road from Grattan St to the terminus at Baker St. One kilometre walk to the intermediate destination in Coburg North to deliver a mended jumper (in the plastic bag). Private transport to the airport. Actually a hotel at the airport because we needed to be there at 4am to get a 6 o’clock flight to Sydney connecting with a flight to LA. I thought this was a good idea because you could change the sheets, make the bed, clean the floors, check the fridge, get rid of the rubbish, that sort of thing, in a leisurely manner rather than trying to go crackers at 1.30 in the morning. Plus you’d already be at the airport.

That all went like a dream, a good omen, because what was ahead was reasonably ambitious. A tour of Mexico covering a lot of country, an investigation of Boston and the north-east of the United States, a walk in Provence’s alps, a big drive through France with time spent in Burgundy and Alsace, some time in Singapore … well, that’s just how the thinking turned out. It covered what we thought we would like to do, albeit in something of a hurry. Seven weeks, six countries, one twice, 27 different beds and a night spent in a bus, 9 flights with 7 different airlines, a dozen bus rides, commercial, private, big, medium, mini, for about 2800 kilometres, a lot of them pretty bumpy (Mexican speed bumps!! Bloody hell), three subways, two lots of trams, trains exotic and otherwise, company known, unknown, recovered. Yes I know, heroic. Plenty of opportunity for things to go wrong.

But I felt pretty good about those Things when we got to the airport for departure. We were in good time and good fettle. I had a folder full of bits of paper all backed up on my phone that were proof against surprises. They were all well rehearsed. I could visualise issue and response. Then a bit of a hiccup: we hadn’t filled out our Qantas authorisations to fly. Just the details of our COVID vaccinations. No issue: I had the records to hand.

Then the swiping of the passports began. Whatever she did, the Qantas checker-in could not bring up our ESTAs, the US Electronic System for Travel Authorisation without which you cannot enter the country and in fact without which the computer will not issue a boarding pass. The ESTA is not a complex affair, straightforward personal data, vaccination info, the questions you still fill out on the form to enter Australia. It’s just quicker and more efficient now.

I was only a bit bothered because I knew about ESTAs. It wasn’t a surprise. I had done ours some weeks before and had paper and digital copies to prove I’d done so.

But the computer said no. And no. And no. And no. And no again. Time was passing, and instead of being in good time for our flight the boarding time came and drifted past. This was a BIG issue, because with a round the world ticket if you miss any leg the rest of your ticket is immediately cancelled. Were we to fall, catastrophically, at the very first hurdle?

A supervisor who had been hovering was summoned. He took our passports and bits of paper away while we stood, faint, moving off after clogging up that lane of the check-in for 45 minutes. He came back with what I would describe as an intent look on his face. ‘How much did you pay for these?’ he asked. ‘Fifty-eight US.’ I knew all this. I’d done it. I’d been careful. I had the proof. It must have been their computer. ‘It should have been 21. You’ve been scammed I’m afraid. There is no record in either case of an ESTA. Without that we can’t issue you a boarding pass.’ So what do we do? ‘You can apply now, but it can take up to 36 hours to get a response.’

We sat on a luggage belt and began the applications on our phones. Phones have small screens when you’re freaked out and your fingers get unaccountably fat and there are several steps including the transfer of money and we were just sitting there with no concrete prospects and why were we doing it anyway because where we really needed to be was Mexico City rather than LA. Maybe just say, fuck it and give up. Write the whole thing off … too hard …

Did it take 15 minutes? It might have, I can’t remember. It might have been twice that. But we finished them and clicked Send. What now? Two old folks sitting on a luggage belt in an airport departure centre right out of the game.

Another actor arrived, a deputy supervisor who invited us to stand at a different counter and talk to her. We considered various options. As we spoke my ESTA arrived. Just the faintest glimmer on the horizon. The faintest. She looked and looked at her computer, and went off and spoke to people, and came back and looked some more, and made noises which were neither encouraging or discouraging. Went off again and came back and said, ‘We think we can get you on direct flight to LA tomorrow afternoon. Would that work for you?’ Yes it would. Salvation. Qantas did that for us, Qantas, which also provided flights at least as comfortable, reliable and efficient as any other airline we subsequently flew with.

So we went downstairs, got a cab (during the ride Myrna’s ESTA came through) and went home, messed up the bed, may have brought dirt in on the floors, found nothing in the fridge and the internet turned off, put some rubbish — the fake ESTAs — in the bin, and slept fitfully. Tomorrow was going to be another day.

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That sign says ‘Hollywood’.