To Amman

The itinerary laid it out simply. 24 hours, two airline carriers and three connecting flights till I would be reunited with my beloved at Queen Alia International Airport in Amman, Jordan. I arrived at Tullamarine with plenty of time to spare, my checked luggage weighed in with 500g to spare and, boarding card in hand I truly believed I was on my way. I've not once ever been more than an hour or so late arriving anywhere in my 20+ years of international travel, which includes the chaos of flying from Heathrow in mid September 2001, and the misfortune of trying to board a flight from JFK five years later with scissors in my hand luggage. I've flown Tiger, Air Asia, Ryanair, EasyJet- all budget carriers notorious for leaving passengers stranded- but emerged on time and unscathed. I even make the pilgrimage back to Perth several times a year, and no matter what delays we encounter, we always 'make it up in the air' and arrive on time. So it was with this history of success and a false sense of security that I boarded my flight to Sydney at 6:40pm, EST.

By 7:30, half an hour after scheduled take off, the suited commuters were getting restless, and I began to feel a little anxious. I'd already read the inflight magazine cover to cover, skimmed both my Vogue Entertaining + Travel and Gourmet Traveller (drooling just a little). I'd even made polite conversation with the chatty IT consultant in the window seat. It was to him that I expressed my concern that if we didn't leave soon I'd have serious trouble making my 9:50pm connection onto my Etihad flight bound for Amman.

At 7:45 we were on our way. The buzzing in the rear airconditioner was in fact not a cause for concern and there was no reason to delay any longer. I continued to flick through my magazines, eat my CityFlyer evening meal (which I'd even managed to arrange to be gluten free!) but couldn't shake my concern. How late were we going to be arriving in Sydney? Would an hour be enough time for both bags and I to make from domestic to international? It seemed I would need to consult a flight attendant.

The Qantas lady furrowed her well maintained brow and teetered off down the aisle to do some checking for me. She returned swiftly and told me to gather my things. I was ushered down to business class and given the very first seat, so I could make a quick getaway. The Frequent Flyer seated next to me seemed to think I would make it, and gave me detailed explanations of the international terminal, and how best to get there. With his 'turn left's and 'straight ahead's swimming in my mind I left the plane at a brisk pace. Surely, I'd board and be on my way within the hour.

Wrong. The fifteen minute wait for the shuttle bus really put a spanner in my works, and by the time I had found the Etihad counter, the lady in scarf and had shook her head apologetically. I wasn't going to make it.

Qantas had obviously anticipated this, and she handed me my new itinerary. I would now be flying Thai Airways to Bangkok and Royal Jordanian onto Amman. And I'd be leaving at 4:30...pm, the following day. And arriving at 5:30am, the day after that. I was handed another slip of paper from across the counter- details of the hotel that had been arranged, and coupons for breakfast lunch and dinner. It was nice to know I was being looked after, but still, where I really wanted to be was on my way to Abu Dhabi, and one step closer to Amman.

A couple of lukewarm buffets and expensive on demand movies later I was right back at Kingsford Smith International, having barely left it. I probably could have walked from the Stamford, had I not had an unweildy combination of luggage that I was hoping not to see again until my muscular man was available to haul them for me. Check in proceeded without a hitch and I cleared customs in no time.

If anything good was to come out of this I would have to say it would be the experience of flying Thai Airways. Man, those Thai's sure know how to cheer a girl up. Colourful seats, smily staff and a mean brandy and dry. About as comfortable as flying economy is ever going to be. They had even processed my request for gluten free meal. I was a happy camper.

By the time we reached Bangkok I was less happy. I'd watched four movies back to back and my body clock was on 1am. And I only had an hour to get to the gate to make my Royal Jordanian flight.

I sleepwalked off the plane. The International Transfer desk I took my passport sent me to another International Transfer desk at the other end of the airport and I tried to walk briskly, without drawing attention of the Thai police dudes, who manage to be simultaneously comical and creepy in their blue/grey outfits and stripy helmets.

Finally I was at the gate, boarding pass in hand with time to spare. Phew. By the time I was sitting in 43J I thought that the worst was over.

Wrong. A bunch of massive Israeli dudes surrounded me, siting across the aisle, in front and next to me, trying to shove their oversized cabin baggage anywhere that space was available. Probably not a good time for me to mention that the Australian Army Slouch Hat I had in the overhead locker was actually very fragile and couldn't be squashed. They passed around little white pills then passed out, one on my shoulder, awaking only when the stewardesses arrived with their kosher meals. I was cramped, sleep deprived and later on starved, when it transpired that Qantas hadn't managed to communicate my need for a special meal. What a joyful experience. On top of that, any time I asked the RJ trolley dollies for water they looked at me as if I was asking if I could possibly take over from the pilot in the cockpit.

Refuelling took place in Doha, delaying us by an extra hour, but finally, when we took off, it sunk in. In just three hours I'd touch down in Amman. I'd be home.

We landed smoothly and were told that the outside temperature was 2degrees and that there was a chance of snow later in the day. Somehow, though I knew it would be winter I hadn't anticipated extreme cold or a chance of snow. All I could picture when contemplating the weather in Jordan was the peeling faces in Lawrence of Arabia and a sweating Indiana Jones.

I waited a the baggage claim area for what seemed like an eternity. The same five identical black suitcases were travelling round and round unclaimed, I wondered if they were from our flight at all, or perhaps just decoys to distract us from their tardiness. When more baggage emerged from behind the plastic strips, mine was one of the first and, after hauling it onto a trolley, I was off to negotiate customs.

I smugly lined up in the International lane, where my Israeli friends were being pointed in the direction of the large queue forming at the Visa desk. Suddenly the fee incurred for couriering my passport to the Jordanian Embassy in Canberra seemed well worth while. I sailed through, explaining that my partner (no, husband- I'm having to masquerade as a married woman, since there is no adequate translation for 'living in sin' that doesn't just mean eternally damned) was here studying. I was through the gates, and greeted by a bleary eyed boyfriend, who was yawning, but pleased that I had finally arrived.