Adelaide is in its own time zone, an hour and a half ahead of Perth, and half an hour behind Melbourne (who had ever heard of a half hour time zone difference?). I had slept on and off during the flights, and when I got out of the airport at about 7 am, loaded with my backpack and the small satchel where I carry my computer and passport pack when traveling, I was at a fairly low point of my biocycle. I came to the information desk and found out that the J1 or J2 buses would take me to downtown, and that I could pay the fare to the driver.
Since it was early, I took a little detour to visit a display of the Vickers Vimy bomber, a very large, ancient airplane that was built to be a bomber in World War I, but was never used for that purpose. Instead it was turned into a very large and ungainly cargo ship, whose claim to fame is that it was used for the first flight between England (London) and Australia (Darwin) in 1916. The plane took less than 30 days to complete the journey, and by the time it reached Sydney it pretty much fell into pieces. The brave years of early aviation.
Loaded with my parcels I then went to the bus stop, clear on the other side of the terminal, where I found out that the dispenser for travel cards was busted. Furthermore, the first bus that stopped informed me (and others who were in the same plight) that they don't take cash and I would have to pay by credit card. Hmm, well, if I must I must. By then the driver was getting a bit impatient so I quickly grabbed my bag and mounted the bus. The young Asian woman who came after me did not have a credit card with a chip, so there was a bit of confusion there until the impatient driver just waved her in.
Off we went, and I was starting to relax when I suddenly realized that I did not have the satchel with me. Panic time. I looked all around me and quickly convinced myself that no, I did not have it with me. Breathing deeply I went to talk with the driver, who informed me that the best way to get back to the airport was to descend, cross the street, and wait for the same J1 bus going in the next direction. So I did, and in waiting I rehashed my actions and became pretty certain that I must have forgotten it on the bench of the bus stop at the airport. Why won't the bus come? I felt that every moment of delay decreased my chances of finding my satchel, so when the bus came I must have looked a little frantic. I sat face to face with a portly, disheveled man in his mid 50's, with a walker and a series of plastic bags and parcels, who right away greeted me with a smile and a "How are you doing, mate?" I told him about my plight, and he was quick to reassure me that undoubtedly the parcel had been brought to the Information Desk, where incidentally he worked as a Tourist Assistant. He had longish disheveled hair, a less than clean hat, and a significantly smudged raincoat of the type you see airport employees wear. This was my introduction to Glenn Simpson, who is probably known everywhere in Adelaide for his easy manner and glib conversation.
So we got to the airport, went past the bench at the bus stop (no satchel there), and made a beeline to the Information Desk, where the lady gave Glenn a nod of greeting (but did not own him as a fellow volunteer), took notes, and promised to keep an eye for the satchel. Glenn suggested that the bus company might have it; perhaps if a later driver had seen the lonely satchel and held it for safety. He was excited about the idea, pulled out his cell phone, found the phone number of the bus authority, and made the report. I spoke with them as well, and they told me that they would call the drivers and put them on the alert. Glenn had given them his cell phone number and they told us they would call.
I was trying to keep a positive spirit, but by this time I started coming to grips with the fact that I had lost my passport! I did a quick mental inventory of my position: I still had my wallet and credit cards, my ATM card and my driver's license, and an imprint of my passport in my cell phone. OK, I could scrap all my plans, take a flight to Melbourne where there is a US Consulate, and apply for a replacement passport.
Glenn was not ready to give up, and suggested we walk to the Police Station, to see if they had camera coverage of the bus stop. So we did, slowly because he uses a walker, and all along he told me stories about the time he had worked with the Federal Police, and the years he spent driving heavy equipment, and as an airplane technician. Once we got to the police station an agent spoke with us, took notes, and went to the back to do his magic. Glenn thought this would be a good time to call back to the bus authority, but in the middle of the call his cell battery died down. Then he dug in his bags for his charging cable, and went to find a wall outlet. A couple of minutes later the agent came back, to collect further information, and in the background I heard Glenn talking to the bus company ... mumble mumble mumble YOU FOUND IT? Mumble mumble mumble IN ELIZABETH? Mumble, mumble, mumble WE WILL BE THERE IN A COUPLE OF HOURS."
OMG! Glenn was right, and what was the chance of that? The network of bus drivers had been energized, and it took them less than 10 minutes to locate the missing satchel, which was now heading for the offices of the bus authority, on the other side of the Adelaide metropolitan area. Glenn assured me that he had everything under control and, being a gentleman of the city, took me to the nearby bus station to wait for the right bus to take us to the city area known as Elizabeth (or The Bronx). By then we had gone into his life as a firefighter, and once we got on the bus (where the bus driver promptly identified me as the guy whose passport had been lost and found) Glenn continued with the story of how he had met Chuck Norris, who had invited him to come visit him at his Texas ranch, which he did, and how he had also met John Travolta while he was there.
The stories followed one after the other, smooth like the flow of a stream, but I really didn't mind. This man is right now my best friend in the world and I will listen to his stories all day long. Besides, he clearly loves his city, and doesn't mind playing the tour guide. Adelaide is much bigger than I had imagined, and the trip took a long time, but I had the added thrill of seeing the bus transform itself into an O-Bahn, which is when the bus enters a tight concrete channel (like a railroad track), the computer takes over, and the bus speeds up to 90 km/hr moving like a fast train. So I "wasted" the day searching for my satchel, but I had the best and most unusual city tour anyone could have hoped for.
The line ends in the ghetto of Elizabeth, and from there we would have had to walk a long distance in the industrial, run-down part of the ghetto. But the bus driver had other directives. Since I was by then some sort of (dumb) celebrity, he drove us all the way to the offices of the bus authority, where I was kindly received as The Village Idiot and gleefully came back in possession of my satchel. Not only that, but as the King of Fools I was honored by the supervisor with the news that a bus would be waiting for us at the parking lot, to take us back in style to the train station. Australians are the friendliest people in the world!
Once at the train Glenn resumed his conversation, pointing out all the worthwhile sights on the route. By then it was close to 1 pm, so as soon as we got to the central station I invited him to lunch. He suggested the city casino, assisted me on becoming a member, and using my membership I was able to buy us a princely lunch of Christmas in July, with prawns cocktail, roasted beef (plus gravy), roasted turkey (plus cranberry sauce), roasted lamb (plus mint sauce), and glazed vegetables. A fine meal indeed.
Glenn had one more surprise for me, and guided us to another suburban train, that was to take us to Belair National Park, to the southeast of the city center. Fair enough. It was pretty and calm, and met my sleepy spirit. Then, about 10 stations short of the end, pandemonium broke loose when the car was invaded by 60 rambunctious boys and their dirt bikes! They were about 15 years old on average, all speaking at the same time, and in no time whatsoever the peace was replaced by loud singing, clapping, and about 10 of them asking me where I came from, how did I like Australia, did I knew how to dance, would I join in their song, and twenty other shouted inquiries. Then, once we got to the end of the line they all poured out, leaving behind a chaos of wrappers, paper cups, and paper sacks. The train employees were not happy, but they were not angry either (boys will be boys). Turns out this is a common occurrence during the school holidays, where the boys get together to go round and round through the national park, staring on top of the mountain, at the end of the line, and getting back on the train at the base of the slope, at the tenth station. Apparently they can keep this up all day long.
How is this for a standard tourist day in Adelaide?
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