The Amount of Time it Takes Me to Start Sweating

When finally I manage to get out of my tangled web of international travel and into the heat of Adelaide, it takes me a moment to adjust to the glare of real, natural sunlight, away from the sickly fluorescence of the airports of the world.  It takes me approximately the same amount of time to start sweating, which is of course another adjustment to the sun and the heat of this place.

I haul around my luggage for a brief moment, somewhat at a loss as to what to do.  Supposedly, I am supposed to meet up with one John De Michelle, an American expat I’d been put in contact with through our mutual friend, Scott Spelbring.  I’d been in touch with John a few times, sporadically, and just a few days before my arrival in Southern Australia.  He had agreed to pick me up at the airport, and also to put me up for a night before I got out to the Hills

Only thing is, John had said he’d be at the airport just after five o’clock, when my plane got in.  However, owing to a thorough search and then a second, exhaustive picking on by Customs, I’d not been officially allowed into the country until almost seven PM.

I am almost two hours late to meeting a stranger and only contact in a foreign country, said stranger being identifiable to me based only on the description, “I drive a silver Ford Focus (Ford Escort), and I have long blonde hair and a winning smile.”  Similarly, I am known to John only as “probably wearing a Nutella t-shirt, a black bandana, yellow work boots... ahhh... Moderately bearded. Glasses. Will probably look wonderstruck. Big, army-green duffel bag.”

So, for a moment I drag my baggage back and forth along the pick-up lane, weighing options and formulating plans, scheming on how to acquire AUSD for a payphone call of cab ride, of which currency I currently have none, since none of my layovers had occurred during the normal operating hours of any currency exchange office.

I eyeball every silver car I see, and hard, hoping some sign of recognition will be given.

“Daniel?”

Bingo.

John, exactly as described, winning smile and all, pulls up to the curb and hails me through his open window.  “Go ahead and throw your stuff in the trunk.”  I hurl my bags into the back, and it is a relief to be rid of them, after two days of worrying and dragging them through overcrowded airplane aisles.

“John, good to meet you.  Are you a sight for sore eyes.”  We shake hands, and I realize how bad I must smell after two days spent in these clothes, their cleanliness already questionable at the onset.

“Man, good choice on the Nutella shirt.  Knew immediately that it was you.”

We have a laugh, and John drives me into his city.