On February 10th, less than 1 week after I posted the last blog, we bid farewell to Bangkok (the city where we lost gallons of sweat), on a red-eye Tiger Airlines flight through Singapore to Darwin, Australia. Cursory and quick plannng left us with an inaccurate idea of our travel itinerary. ( I am happy to confide this, for a change, was Troy's fault)

From our experience with international flights, I should have known $130 per person for the Thailand to Oz flight would not buy reasonable departure, layover and arrival times. Turns out, after leaving Bangkok at 9pm, and arriving after midnight, we would spend 17 hours roaming the Singapore airport terminals before leaving.

Awesome!

There are substantial differences between the main and budget terminals of the Singapore airport; differences which become deeply contrasted when you're exhausted, dirty, jet-lagged, homeless, and carting nearly 200 lbs of poorly-packed baggage. **Apparently $3 dollar duffle bags bought at Thai flea markets aren't superior quality. Just days after purchase we needed to utilize aesthetically-pleasing duct tape to restrain the bras, underwear and knock-off perfume from the tears**

The Singapore budget terminal is a large white box housing a suspect coffee stand, and a row of uncomfortable plastic chairs and a staff of irritated employees who're pissed they've been bastardized to the ghetto. The glittering main concourse has massage chairs, comfortable beds, olympic-sized swimming pool, free sex and drugs. Suctioned, face to glass, we witnessed the luxury main terminal passengers enjoyed, while we "budget travelers" rotted alive on cold tile beaten with seizure-inducing repitition of Celine Dion's "My heart will go on". ( Asians have a disturbing affinity for this song)

Much, earlier ( well-rested and clean), we discussed sleeping in the airport, because 17 hours is too short to arrive at 2:00am and pay for a hotel, just to rush back to the airport. At least, that's what we thought. Never having experienced sleeping in an airport, we both surmised it the best and cheapest choice.

After collecting a household from the baggage carousel and punching myself in the face, I got a cart and we began the trek to the shuttle, which would take us from budget to main terminal. The plan was to utilize the main terminal and return to budget in time to reach our flight. Right now, it was 2am, and apart from the arctic blast of the zealous air-conditioning, the midi-ish Muzak permeating from plastic bushes, and one suspicious scuffling janitor ( who seemed to be gathering surveillance on us) the terminal was off limits and dead.

Much to our dismay, we discovered the inside main terminal is blocked to those who do not have tickets departing there. After a few minutes of calmly discussing the kink in our plans ( screeching, screaming, flailing, collapsing) we surveyed the available three floors of inhospitable granite and tile to retire for the night. Could we really do this? McDonalds, Starbucks and Swensens were closed, security-filmed and although they had comfortable looking booths, they were no-gos. Singapore isn't known for being lenient to any sort of law-breaking, definitely not in its prized main airport terminal. Not wanting to be caned, or jailed for life for sleeping on a fast food bench, we found a room of glass, tile and stone perched above a runway, called a take-off viewing room. It stored a handful of other budget-terminal-damned travelers. We rolled out our sleeping bags, silk sleep sheets and tried to ignore the echoes of snores, tinny-blast of soft rock, garbage being emptied and tile being buffed. A few times we heard teenagers running and screaming through the concourse; the airport terminal being a place of choice for Singaporean youth.

Entirely delerious and stinky, we arose again at 5am, having not slept, showered or changed, deciding to spend the rest of our 14 hours wandering the terminal. We hung out in Starbucks, and then moved to some diner, in which, we proceeded to pass out. I don't think we left the lingering Singaporean families with a good impression; we woke to children being nervously shooed away from our table. Five hours later we wiped our crusted drool, rode the sky train between terminals a dozen times, and then loitered by the free internet terminals, kicking off a bunch of school children playing video games.

By the time 8pm rolled around, and we'd checked into our Darwin flight, and dropped our fleet of luggage, we were so tired we'd slept through take-off and landing; a luxury in which I never indulge, as I am usually busy ( obsessed) mentally re-enacting a mid-air explosion.

We arrived to Darwin International just after 2:30am, to a very dutiful customs department, who seemed to delight in reporting "a situation" at counter 4; Troy's opened gummy worms apparently flagrant threats to the Aussie national security. Resigned to leave the sour worms with them (although I did eat one right there to show them who's boss) we fuddled through the rest of their process, trying to balance our circus of luggage and get to our shuttle.

After short visits in Darwin, Surfer's Paradise and Byron Bay, on February 20th, we stepped off the Virgin Blue flight in our first New Zealand city: Auckland. Arriving on a work visa until February of next year, we shuffled through customs and immigration with nothing more than a friendly, tired nod from an official, who stamped our work visas with no questioning whatsoever. Not knowing how strict it would be, we printed out bank statements, proof of medical insurance, proof of visa, itinerary after New Zealand. Lonely planet posters claimed it could be very easy or very hard, depending on who was working immigration at the time. Luckily, the staff were as disinterested and exhausted as we were, and not only were we quickly waved through, but they asked us for nothing.

We were lucky to meet Tracey, a lovely Aussie girl sat next to us on our flight, who offered to take us ( with her Kiwi boyfriend) from the airport to downtown. During the 30 minute drive, they gave us a brief summary of the temperate, sometimes too rainy weather, the people, rugby, odd Kiwi accents, volcanoes in the area, and weird sports like zorbing and air carting. It was close to 3am, we were exhausted, we were on our way to our new home; except we didn't have a bed, dresser, or even an apartment to return to. For four sleepless, irritated nights, we endured a strange and smelly corporation of mildewed drunk people and nests of bed bugs called Fat Camel Hostel. It is the very LAST hostel we will stay in.

Over the past 3 weeks, Troy and I have secured an awesome downtown apartment, home furnishings, and jobs, to boot :0) We're on our way to becoming legitimate residents, buying property ( it's appreciated 80% in the last few years, still going strong) and getting back into routine! Did I say how much I love and miss working out??

Now we're ready for you guys: Mom, Dad, Sasch, Tony, Maki, Lucas, Debbie

XOXOXOX