The Suitcase Saga

Having been restricted to one suitcase each on the flight here, we looked into alternate shipping costs for additional excess luggage before we set off. Having received a quote for £150 to ship a 30kg suitcase we thought this was quite reasonable, compared to the £750 Emirates wanted to charge us to take an extra case, and packed some additional semi-essential belongings into a case.

Once we had arrived in Sydney and settled in to our new appartment we made arrangements for the case to be collected and shipped to us. After a false start when the case wasn’t picked up, it was finally collected and sent on its way. A few days later we received a call from the handling company in Sydney to say it had arrived and all we had to do was pay the $115 clearance and handling fee and it would be ours. It would have been nice if the company sending the case would have told us about this clearance and handling fee, but alas they ommited to mention it.

The suitcase was being held at an industrial estate near the airport. When I say near, I base my approximation to Google Maps which showed it to be about an inch or so away, but I forget what scale I was looking at. Having interrogated the public transport timetables, it was going to take us at least an hour and a half to get to the industrial estate… or we could get a taxi and go door to door. To save time, we decided to get a taxi. $35 later we were at the handling company’s warehouse and just about to say goodbye to our taxi driver when we found out in order to pick up the case we had to pay, then take our documents to the customs office at the airport, then come back and collect the case.

We duly paid and, having held on to the taxi, got it to take us to the customs offices at the airport. Unfortunately the customs office was next to the international terminal at Sydney airport. The handling company were next to the domestic terminal. $25 later we arrived at the customs office, having driven past ominously long tailbacks leading away from the international terminal.

Inside we took our ticket and thankfully didn’t have to wait too long before we were seen by a customs official who inspected our documents, my identification and asked us a few questions. Then we took another ticket for a quarantine officer, and saw another official who asked us more questions about any seeds, nuts, wooden items or any animal or food products we might have packed. Thankfully we passed all the tests and were free to go back to the handling company and collect our case… we just had to get there.

Having seen the long traffic queues leading away from the international terminal, we decided to see if there was a shuttle bus or train to the domestic terminal, rather than sit in a taxi in traffic. There were, but unfortunately they weren’t free like other international airports. $10 later we arrived at the domestic terminal, found a taxi, and made our way back to get the suitcase. Again, we kept the taxi while we sorted the final details and we were soon back at our flat, having paid a further $70 to the taxi driver.

Not quite as cheap and easy as we initially thought, but opening the case back to the flat felt like opening a Christmas present as we couldn’t remember what we’d packed over a month ago back in Newcastle and each item we took out was a surprise. As it turned out, I didn’t pack too much, but Caroline got some much needed shoes, bags, jewellry and clothes. Definitely worth it to keep the smile on her face.

Riding The Emotional Roller Coaster

As if coming away in itself wasn’t filled with enough highs and lows, the ups and downs of job hunting since we got here have been many. Interviews that went better than we thought, not hearing back when you think you will, mixed news about a position you were excited about, waiting and waiting for the phone to ring, the sniff of a dream job, the job that never was, willing and willing the phone to ring, the sniff of sponsorship, the wasted journey to the interview that goes nowhere, the second interview, 180o u-turns by recruitment agents when they realise your visa status is “working holiday”.

They are just some of the highs and lows we have experienced so far in trying to find gainful employment, in order to keep our Australian dream alive. We knew it would be like this before we came out here, but it still doesn’t quite prepare you for the reality of the situation. As time draws on, with every application that is submitted, it both renews our hope and expectations that the right job will soon be landed whilst simultaneously sapping energy for the whole process. I think I’ve rewritten my CV (or “resume” as they prefer to call it out here) about 30 times so far.

So far we’ve remarked that it doesn’t quite feel like we’ve moved here permanently, but a bit like a holiday, only a holiday where you feel guilty if you relax on the beach (weekends and evenings only so far). It’s a strange kind of limbo. The inconsistency in response from recruitment agents (the vast majority of whom I now regard as a necessary evil on a par with estate agents) is, at times, bewildering. We’ve received so many conflicting stories about required experience, visa restrictions, sponsorship opportunities that at times you don’t know what to believe.

At last, there appears to be some light at the end of the tunnel; both a job offer and even the possibility of sponsorship, which has taken on more significance since the visa we applied for may not be processed until 2012 by the worst estimate! Keep your fingers crossed for us folks, and we’ll keep you updated.

Settling In

One of our first conundrums once we got our bearings, was deciding where we should live in Sydney. Near the beach? Near the city? Good transport links? Good shops? Good restaurants? Somewhere with a view? Somewhere that ticks all of those boxes was what we were hoping to find. And as we were still to find jobs, somewhere cheap would help.

Everyone we spoke to had different opinions on which suburb was the best. As we were staying with friends at Bondi Beach, we definitely saw the appeal of living near the beach, with a view of the ocean from a balcony.

As it is plainly obvious from her choice of husband, Caroline has good taste. Shoes, bags, furniture, home decorations; she will naturally pick the most expensive thing from a range of items without seeing the price tags. So it was no surprise when, having looked over some maps of Sydney, Caroline’s shortlist of suburbs contained some of the most well-heeled neighbourhoods.

We set out on foot to explore potential new neighbourhoods to get a feel for them, and started calling agents to enquire about listings we’d seen on web sites and in windows. Eventually we viewed a furnished apartment in Rose Bay that we almost discounted as we thought it may have been too small. We really liked the interior, but it was just turning dark when we arrived so couldn’t really see what the street was like. We returned the next day and the leafy streets and nearby shops impressed us.

The agent quickly got us signed up and we moved in within a matter of days. A few shopping trips later to stock up on essentials and the place was starting to feel like home, sweet home. Now we’ve been here a couple of weeks and have explored some a little more we both feel that we made the right choice.

The Bank that likes to say… No! And the Clumsy gene.

Before we set off for Australia I started taking a keen interest in currency exchange rates, surprisingly enough the British pound to Australian dollar rate. Unfortunately for us, at $1.85 to £1, the exchange rate was the worst on record. Ok, the record I was looking at on the web site only went back 120 days, but still, it was the worst it had been for the past few months.

Amid the chaos that was our lives on the 22nd of September, I sat down and attempted to transfer some funds from my Nat West bank account via a currency trade to our Australian bank accounts. Everything seemed to be fine and I went back to packing assuming (you can see where this is heading, right?) that as Caroline and I were being shot across the sky in an air compressed tube, our money was being sent down an electronic wire as pounds and coming out at the other end as Australia dollars.

To celebrate our arrival in Sydney, and to introduce us to some new friends, our hosts Jody and Maria had arranged a bit of a get together on the Friday night at their apartment in Bondi. Despite jet-lag (both of us), trying to sleep through the day (Caroline) and an afternoon detour via the pub (me) we both turned ourselves round in time to meet new friends and down a few cocktails – an excellent start to life down under.

After a recovery day on Saturday (possibly jet-lag or even a hangover?) we were ready to go out again on Sunday. We’d been invited to the apartment of a friend of Jody and Maria’s for an afternoon lunch and wine tasting. We were soon inside a very nice flat with river views, tasting some excellent New Zealand Pinot Noir wine and meeting more new friends. The selling point of the flat though was the roof terrace, that had views down the river to the Sydney Harbour Bridge. Definitely the place to be for New Years Eve.

Later that night we went to meet more new friends, and downed a few more drinks. When it came time to leave, I was slightly alarmed to find that my shoes no longer fitted my feet. They were brown like my shoes. They had the same pattern on them as my shoes. They were made by the same people who made my shoes. They had even been re-heeled like my shoes. But they would not fit on my feet. Were they my shoes? Even after Caroline went through all the various shoes that were accumulated by the front door to double check mine weren’t there, I squeezed my feet into them and off we set for home.

On Monday, our third day in Australia, we presented ourselves and the necessary identification details to our Australian bank. Accounts opened, we checked our balance. A rather unhealthy $0. It later transpired that Nat West had stopped my transfer under suspision of fraud. It would have been nice of them to make sufficient checks whilst I had been on the phone with them, alas they did not.

I called the bank and, after confirming my identity to the security team, I was transferred through to the telephone banking team. After a bit of investigation, it was confirmed that the money had left my account and was off on its way, slower than originally planned, to the currency trader.

Caroline and I went back to exploring Sydney, enjoying the sunshine, applying for jobs, looking at rental properties online, and exploring new potential neighbourhoods. To assist the job hunt, we’d both made appointments at a recruitment agency for the Tuesday afternoon. The office was located in Sydney’s Central Business District, and we both changed from our shorts and t-shirts into smarter attire. For me, this meant putting on my brown shoes. Yes, the ones that didn’t quite fit the last time I tried them on. Unfortunately they were still tight but, having not brought any other shoes with me (I’d planned to buy new shoes after I arrived) I was going to have to wear the brown ones.

We set off for our appointments but on the walk to the recruitment agents, my poor tender feet developed two monster blisters on the heels and I had to hobble into my meeting John Wayne style. I had to fold down the backs of the shoes and walk on them out of the interview. It was that or bare foot. I retired to bed on Tuesday night with two giant plasters covering two red-raw heels.

On Wednesday morning we decided to catch up on some admin. We sorted out some washing and were tidying up a bit. I had decided to leave the TV on in the lounge with ESPN’s round up of the weekend’s Premier League Soccer. Or football to the educated amongst us. I was loading the washing machine with the second load of clothes when I heard a goal had been scored. As I rushed through to see who had scored, my path took me ever so slightly closer to the sofa than I had planned. It really was a narrow margin of error. Half the width of a little toe to be precise. As I hopped round the room in pain, failing to hold back the curses, I soon saw that I’d hit the sofa leg with enough force to split the little toe nail in two and cut a healthy slice into the toe.

Anyone who’s read Suzie’s travel blogs will know that my dear sibling has a tendancy to fall over or injur herself in various exotic places around the world. I can now chalk Bondi onto the family list. I’d just like to know which of our parents we inherit the clumsy gene from? So on Wednesday night, I retired to bed with plasters on my heels, and a couple strapped around my little toe.

On Thursday I hobbled my way back into the city to meet a tax specialist, then off to a couple of appartment viewings. One in particular took our eye, a beutifully furnished apartment between North Bondi and Rose Bay. As we went to bed on Thursday night we were tired from an afternoon of running round, but happy at the prospect of hopefully securing our first appartment. Then the phone rang and it was the currency traders, asking when my funds were going to be transferred. After another phone call to Nat West, it turned out that the payment they had assured me was on its way to the currency traders hadn’t gone after all. One long, long phone call later everything finally seemed to be sorted. And eventually our Australian dollars arrived.

Now all I have to do is wait for my feet to return to their normal size before I can buy some new shoes!

first impressions

It’s always a relief when things start well, and you get a good first impression of someone or somewhere.

When Caroline and I first landed in Sydney, just before New Year 2008, we got a brilliant first impression of the place. It started in the airport, when the customs official inspecting our passport seemed genuinely happy to see us and welcomed us to Australia. It continued on the way to our hotel, when the taxi driver told us that the 20 minute drive would normally take up to an hour in rush hour traffic but the holidays meant we scootled right through. And it carried on even further when we set out to explore this great city for the first time; it was warm and sunny, people were smiling, and the city center streets seemed nice and clean.

In the months after our visit, I didn’t know if I was being overly sceptical when I wondered if that is genuinely how Sydney always is, or if everyone and everything were on their best behaviour for New Years Eve and the influx of tourists. Well now we’re back and I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough.

Second impressions are often when you see things as they really are. I’m sure that’s the logic for having a second viewing on a potential new house, and where the proverb “Take a second look, it costs you nothing” comes from. If only taking a second look at Sydney hadn’t been so costly. Not just in terms of the air fare to get here, but in terms of leaving behind so many family and friends, not to mention our lovely little home.

At this point I think it is only right to thank everyone who helped us pack up our lives into two cases, and the remnants into assorted piles for storage, shipping or disposal. We definitely wouldn’t have been able to do it without the help of Carl and Kristina, Helen, mum, Lynn, Mike and Tim. (Sorry if I missed anyone out!)

Before we set off for Sydney, it seemed as though things were conspiring to make our second impression a little less favourable than the first. The day had finally arrived when we would set off, and dust storms had hit; the air pollution was the worst on record, and there were reports of international flights had been diverted. In the rest of Australia, there were reports of earthquakes and floods. Brilliant!

Following a tearful departure at the airport, more tears were cried as our flight from Newcastle to Dubai took off. Sad as we were though, we couldn’t help but think positively about the wonderful oportunities awaiting us in the land Down Under. The conspiracy plot thickened… our flight had to take a detour as a passenger took ill on the flight. The air crew asked for doctors to come forward and there was a bit of a comotion with compressed air cylinders, blood pressure machines, and an apparent lack of sick bags (Emirates please take note). The result was an unscheduled stop in Ankara where the poor lady, who now claimed she felt fine but for the deep sense of embarrasment and guilt at causing the delay, was told she was being taken off the plane for her own safety.

After a 45 minute wait on the runway while the paramedics and ground crew went about there business, we were underway again. This time though, the conspirator attempting to ruin our trip was a drunken passenger in the next seat, across the aisle. He was travelling alone, going back to Dubai for work, but had obviously passed the time in the airport and on the flight by having too much to drink. The sluring, manic gaze and erratic behaviour weren’t the most welcome of traits on a long haul flight, despite the comedic interludes, including falling off his chair and losing his shoes. By the time we got to Dubai we were shattered, emotionally and physically. Leaving the cool, air conditioned airport at 2 in the morning we were hit by a wall of 32 degree heat and accompanying humidity that further sapped our strength.

We made our way to the airport hotel and, after our complimentary snack of sandwiches (which funilly enough I can find nothing complimentary to say about them) went up to our room. The kind soul who checked us in had put us in a quiet room at the end of a 10 mile corridor, which only added to our fatigue. When we reached our door and the electronic key card wouldn’t open the door, we nearly cried. Another hotel guest, who up until this point had been loitering suspiciously in the hallway, indicated that his key card had also not worked and we were slightly relieved that his loitering was nothing more sinister than waiting for a member of staff to come and let him in. Having collapsed into bed after a shower we both fell into a deep sleep and when our alarm went off, based on the evidence of the food presented so far, opted to have an extra 20 minutes kip rather than sample the breakfast buffet.

Thankfully our second flight was less eventful than the first. There were no inebriated passengers and we went directly to our intended destination, landing in Sydneyat 6 in the morning in glorious sunshine. We cleared passport control and customs without any trouble, which was a relief as we thought we may have to answer some questions about our working holiday visa plans. I’d also been very honest with my customs information, confirming that my running trainers may have the slightest trace of mud on them, but the official who we spoke to was happy enough to let us through on the condition that Caroline give them a good wash down before I used them!

We left the airport and saw some evidence of the recent dust storms, but thankfully nowhere near as bad as we thought it might have been. Two friends had agreed to put us up for the first few weeks and we got a taxi to their flat in Bondi. After a cup of tea and quick chat with our hosts, we both showered and climbed into bed tired but happy.

So far, the second impression was living up to the first.

toot toot tooooot!

That’s the sound of the fanfare that greets my first blog post.  Coincidentally it’s exactly the same sound that is made when children use the leftover cardboard tubes from the middle of wrapping paper as trumpets.  I say children, but it’s one of those stupid things I still do to make my wife smile.  Try it, it’s lots of fun.

Speaking of which, many (probably all) of you will know that Caroline and I are heading off to Australia in a couple of weeks time.  There should be a link somewhere to Caroline’s blog, and we’re both also fully paid up members of Facebook, Twitter and Skype, all in an effort to keep in touch with our family and friends while we’re away.

This blog will probably be a random collection of the highs and lows of our journey to Sydney as seen through my eyes.  I once read a comment that blogs were only “for people with verbal diarrhea”.  I’ll try and prove that at least one isn’t… but looking at the opening ramblings about fanfares tooted through cardboard tubes, perhaps I’ve already fallen at the first hurdle.

migs