Australia to Fiji

July 20

It rained all night in Sydney. There were puddles everywhere and a cold wind whipped the treetops. We were leaving Australia on this note. As much as we had packed the evening before, we were still fiddling with it this morning when our shuttled collected us at 9:30 AM to take us and our four bags to the international terminal on the far side of the airport. We couldn't find the voucher for this shuttle ride in Razelle's stash of receipts but the driver believed us when we said we'd paid in advance and we didn't have to pay again. An arriving passenger gave us her cart and saved us 4 dollars. I bumped Razelle with this cart and she was shaken enough to cry. Airport personnel comforted her and got her a wheelchair. We were among the first to be processed and I was allowed to push Razelle's wheelchair until boarding time. Our last hours in Australia were spent finding ways to spend down the last of our Australian currency. Razelle brought all the receipts from our purchases in Australia to the tax refund counter, but none of our receipts was large enough alone to merit a refund, and they didn't have a policy of adding together all our smaller receipts, so no refund was due.

One of the duty free shops sold didgeridoos. I made one last attempt at playing this instrument before leaving Australia. To my amazement and joy, a really decent sound came out. I tried a few of the techniques from the workshop I attended in Alice Springs and they showed some promise. Well, well. I believe I can do the didgeridoo after all.

Getting through carry-on inspection was easy for Razelle but my backpack had to go through three times. It had all the electronics cords and some refrigerator magnets and a tube of toothpaste that they pulled out one time after another before they decided to let me pass – and they didn't confiscate anything. I had been so concerned about packing the big luggage that I forgot to prepare the carry-on properly. I was lucky this time and will remember this incident from now on.

We boarded our flight for Fiji, but we didn't really believe we were going to that mythical place. Seeing our flight stewards in flowery shirts didn't convince us it was real, but it was a step in the right direction. We took off and looked out over Sydney one last time. There would be no land below us to see out the windows again until we landed on an island in the South Pacific. To pass the time I typed up back entries to this blog on my laptop. The kosher food on the flight came from New Zealand. It was a breakfast serving of French toast because they didn't have a kosher dinner. The vegetarian fare was fresh Fijian fruit.

It was the immigration cards that were passed out that made Fiji real for us. We saw on them that food had to be declared. We had an unopened kosher salami we've saved in our refrigerators wherever we've been. We hoped they wouldn't confiscate it or worse, fine us or arrest us for smuggling it into their militarily ruled country. We flew on in fear of Fiji's finest. The flight was not long at all and the oranges and purples of sunset over the Pacific out the windows preceded our touchdown in paradise. We were resigned to loosing our salami.

Inside the airport, we were welcomed by a four-man ensemble of musicians playing traditional music and wearing traditional clothing. They wanted us to feel welcome. Signs all over the place declared, "Bula", which has as many meanings as "Shalom" (hello, goodbye, be well). We instead dwelled on the reception we expected at the quarantine station. While I waited for our luggage, Razelle ate as much of the Cheerios as she could manage while seated in her wheelchair. Our luggage didn't appear on the conveyor belt and I was now more troubled than before. Because of Razelle's disabled status, they had been tagged for special assistance and they were personally hand delivered to us, instead. Razelle struck up a friendly conversation with the Fijian airport employee who was her attendee and our Israeli and Jewish identity came up, as did Razelle's dietary considerations. Once all of our bags were assembled, this wonderful employee got us through quarantine with a precursory inspection that ignored the contents of the bags and we were outside in the tropical night air and onto our hotel shuttle without any hassles.

We were in Fiji. It really exists and it was trying to make us welcome and it was succeeding.

We pulled up to our hotel and a porter in a wrap-around Fijian skirt took control of our bags. The registration went smoothly and we walked down a long roofed and landscaped walkway following our porter and we opened the door to our room.

It is a palace in paradise. We couldn't believe how spacious and well appointed it was. The lap of luxury. Razelle was VERY impressed with my choice of hotels. I'd forgotten how lovely its description was on the Internet until I walked into the room with Razelle.

Were we never to leave the room again, Fiji had already stolen our hearts.

We could have ordered room service but instead we went to the dining area and ordered from the menu. Our server's name was Loata. She is a very personable ethnic Fijian. We explained our dietary restrictions and she was very helpful in suggesting what would fit them. I ordered beer-battered fish (she assured me it was a scaled and finned fish, not a shell fish) and Razelle ordered a type of pizza that comes on a fine shell of crust rather than on a bread crust. We both enjoyed our choices, but because of my ring I couldn't finish it all. Razelle tasted my fish and decided it was the best fish she's ever, ever eaten. Loata chatted with us while the dining area was quiet. We got to know a lot about Fiji from her and she learned a lot about us and our existence in far-away Israel. It was a magical evening. Razelle declared it was the honeymoon she'd always wanted, and after 29 and a half years of marriage and three other attempts at a honeymoon, I'd finally gotten it right. Razelle has had stars in her eyes all evening. I like seeing her this way.