Perils and pitfalls: The trip from Canberra to Fort Lauderdale
Right. I went and found food, but unfortunately no cider. Started this last night, but kept dozing off while typing. Now that I have eaten and slept, I will tell the tale of my travel travails.
It all started even before I got to Canberra airport. About eight minutes out from the house, I realised I'd left my top hat at home. As we were on a fairly tight schedule, going back would have meant possibly being late, so I forged onward hatless.
At Canberra airport, everything went swimmingly. Got my suitcase and guitar checked in before the rush and had plenty of time to sit for a leisurely cuppa with Erika before being processed through security (where I was patted down for explosives residue).
The plane from Canberra to Sydney
I actually quite enjoy flying on these little turboprop planes.
Navigating Sydney was fairly straightforward. Got on the Qantas transfer bus, thus avoiding the expense and hassle of leaving the terminal and catching the regular terminal to terminal bus. An advantage of booking all the way through with Qantas. I sat myself down at one of the bars to have a cider while waiting for boarding time, and failed completely to find any kind of wireless network to connect to. Not even a secure one. Checked BIOS setting and Wireless switch on the laptop, all seemed like it should be working... (more on that later.)
Picked up a few titbits in the Sydney Duty-free store. (Unfortunately, Arnotts no longer make the mixed pack of different types of Tim-Tams, so I was forced to settle with just buying a little carry-bag chocked full of regular Tim-Tams.) Got to the gate in plenty of time to be an early boarder, so I had no trouble getting my stuff into overhead lockers. I paid extra for an exit row seat on the two long flights, so I could stretch my legs and get up without disturbing anyone. I introduced myself to my seat neighbours as they arrived. In the aisle seat was David, a pleasant Australian who'd been living in NY for ten years, and thus had that half-and-half accent that sounds American to Aussies, but Australian to Americans. A nice Canadian lady had the window seat; she was on her way home after travelling to Sweden, Australia, Bali, and back to Australia for her son's wedding in Manly.
On board in Sydney
In my seat, waiting to take off.
This was when things started to go wrong. We taxied out to the runway, at which time one of the cabin crew reported water leaking out of a light fitting in one of the galleys. Not wanting to try to fix it in flight, they taxied back to the terminus, and some fellows in yellow vests had a look in the ceiling:
Technicians fixing the leak
It was particularly surprising when they called for some blankets.
Getting that sorted out took nearly an hour, by which point I was beginning to wonder whether I'd have trouble getting my connection in LAX (LA International Airport), which I had discovered involved changing terminus there, too.
Off at last!
Finally in the air and headed for LAX!
Now, at some stage, I took my 10MP cheap camera and stuck it in one of the many pockets of my laptop bag, thus promptly losing it until I went though my bag thoroughly later on.
Not long after take-off, David on my right, who it turned out had an uncle who worked for Qantas, known by many of the cabin crew, got upgraded to Premium Economy as part of a shuffle of seating that got someone with a child moved to the place where they put them normally, and a young (and very tall) Australian called Steve took his place. Steve? Maybe it was Justin. Anyway, he was far less chatty than David.
A twelve hour flight is a long time. I tried to watch "All About Steve" on the in-flight entertainment system, but the headphones were incapable of overcoming the constant white noise during the soft bits. I watched something I'd seen before instead. Can't remember what it was, now. I tried listening to some podcasts, but kept dozing off. I ate the meals they gave us. I drank lots of water. I got up from time to time and walked about. I practised tango in the space beside the exit door while my neighbours were conked out wearing their blindfolds. I watched Tim Minchin's So Live. I watched some Simpsons episodes. There was nothing to see out the windows. It was night, and we were above the ocean until the very end of the flight, and then suddenly, there was something to see! Were my eyes deceiving me? No, those really were some mountains rearing above the cloud cover. A peculiar sight for us Australians. Our mountains just don't go that high, at least not where any planes fly. They were really pointy and jagged, too, rather than the softly rounded edges of Australian mountains. It was at this point that I realised I couldn't find my camera.
We arrived in LAX and the confusion began. Instructions flowed over tinny PA systems, in the plane and the terminal. They were contradictory, they were confusing. A crowd of people flowed out of the plane and along the corridors. Everyone had to collect their baggage and re-check it in. We came up to the border & immigration desks, where every station seemed packed, with long queues stretching out. But where were our bags? Didn't we have to collect them first? I walked almost the entire length of the terminal before realising that none of the people queuing up had more than their hand luggage. Just how many queues was I going to have to wait in?
Eventually, I joined a queue for visitors to the States. Then got moved across to a queue for US citizens and residents. Then got the chance to be fingerprinted and asked three times if I was there for business purposes. That's after handing over the two forms I had to fill out on the plane as well as the form I filled out online, which said I was there for a holiday, not business. But the USCBP person was nice enough, if somewhat brusque. And now I have my first stamp on my passport. And they stapled my departure record into my passport. Is that normal? Mutilating the passports of citizens of other nations?
So, through the Border Patrol checkpoint, I scurried over to the baggage carousel where I was fairly certain a couple of the announcements had said the baggage from our plane was. I got my suitcase there, but my guitar was nowhere to be seen. I had heard some mention of large baggage going somewhere else for a different flight, so I asked someone with a name badge, who directed me to a pile of large objects surrounded by a small crowd of people. There was my guitar! A small dent on the case, nothing to worry about. Glad I bought the proper flight case, rather than saving money and trusting to luck.
With no clear instructions, it seemed to be a case of just joining one of the many streams of people queuing up for the baggage inspection machines. All of which seemed to be sitting idle and unused. The lines progressed, and it seemed like they weren't checking anyone's bags today, thank you very much. They took the customs declaration forms and waved us on our way. Which was a good thing. If I'd been held up there, I don't know what I'd have done. Then it was up a couple of ramps, told to go that way, then told that it was too late for me to cross-check my bags there, and I'd have to take them to the other terminal. So outside I go, feeling exasperated and confused. An extremely helpful lady asked me where I was going, told me to calm down and breathe, and that the terminal I needed to go to was just a little way along the footpath. I was so grateful I gave far more money than I probably should have to the charity she was collecting for as a sideline.
So into the American Airlines terminal, and chaos. I saw a sign that said "bag drop" so I went there. Just as I got there, a lady took the sign away. I asked her where I could check in my bags, and she directed me to wait for the next check-in counter, which were all saying "online check-in". That didn't seem quite right, but surely she should know what she's talking about? At least better than I do?
Well, maybe not, I go up to the first counter that's free, who looks at my bags, tells me that since they already have all their tags, I should just take them to "the middle", where there are a bunch of guys feeding luggage through a scanner. I trundle over there, give my bag and guitar case over to a young fellow, who tells me I should wait in case they need to inspect the bags. I look at the time. I have ten minutes before boarding is supposed to start. I look at the queue of people running the entire length of the balcony above. I call over one of the guys and explain the timing situation. This guy tells me to get on upstairs, and prioritises my luggage in the queue for the scanner.
I head towards the escalator. There is a queue waiting to get on the escalator. They are only letting a few people up at a time. Maybe there are weight limitations on the balcony? I don't know. The queue of people is led outside, then progresses back in. Eventually, I get to go upstairs. Three minutes 'til boarding starts. I become part of the huge queue along the balcony. Halfway along, it splits, with some people going back the other way. There is no one to explain why this is happening. Some people are choosing to go that way. I'm not even certain what this queue is for, but I'm fairly sure I have to be in it. I choose to continue on to where I can see security check in ahead, rather than choose the vagaries of turning back and hoping that there is less queuing through that mysterious doorway. Was that a good choice? I'll probably never know. The Canadian lady who sat next to me from Sydney to LAX chose that path, and I never saw her again. Never found out her name, either.
Keep in mind here that this is Tuesday morning. Still, or again. I left Canberra on Tuesday morning, and now, fifteen or sixteen hours later, I'm in LA, and it's still Tuesday morning! I suppose when we crossed the date line it might have become Monday for a little while in the middle of the flight, but it never felt like Monday.
As I'm getting towards the end of the balcony, they're breaking people up into two different lines, and I see a couple in front asking to be treated special because of some priority reason. The man is short, white, balding and unattractive, and the lady is a beautiful black woman in a gold evening gown, excessive jewellery and a bored look. I kid you not. I instantly dislike them, with no rational reason. They are told to go to one of the lines. It doesn't look like it's going to be any quicker. I check the time. Boarding was supposed to start for my flight six minutes ago. I consider mentioning this to someone in charge, but there doesn't appear to be any way they have for speeding people up, and irrationally, I don't want to be like that couple. Eventually, I show my boarding pass and passport to the security guy and head for the scanner. I take off my shoes (quicker in the long run than having to go back if they do have metal bits in the soles, which is quite likely), sliding my laptop out of my bag, and dumping everything into trays. Thankfully, they don't decide to check me for explosives residue a third time, and I'm into the terminal at last. I put my laptop away, but I'm still carrying my shoes at this point. An announcement comes over the PA system (a system that could not be heard at all outside the security checkpoint!), the last call for boarding for my flight. The gate is, of course, at the very far end of the terminal building. Clutching my shoes and Tim-Tams in either hand, backpack on my back, I jog down the length of the building in my socks and am probably the last person on the plane. Whew! Made it.
Now, to be fair, if I hadn't made it, Qantas/American Airlines would have sorted it out for me and gotten me to Miami eventually, but who knows how long it would take?
The Transverse Ranges
Not the Rockies at all. See below.
With no idea where my camera was, and the fasten seatbelt sign left on for most of the flight, I remembered my Treo's camera, and snapped a few pics with it. Not very good quality, I know.
Down at Miami
And this is when the next chapter of my adventures begins. I went to get my luggage, to find that the security strap on my suitcase was gone. Couldn't find anything missing in the case, but the security strap was gone. Kind of makes you wonder what is the point of the strap, doesn't it? It was there at LAX, when I popped open the case to toss in the tube of Vegemite I bought at the Sydney Duty-Free. I asked the baggage desk about it, and she printed something off (without even asking me my name or what flight I was on) and bracketed the section of AA's baggage agreement that says that projecting items such as straps are not guaranteed to be safe. I tried to explain that this was not a loose strap flapping around that could get caught in mechanisms and torn off, this was a snugly fitting security strap! It seemed she wanted me to sign this pointless waste of time, but I just sighed in exasperation and walked away. Clearly, there was no help or explanation to be found. Fail, American Airlines, fail. Qantas, why do you partner with these people? They are not up to your standards.
Next up, I start to look for the car rental desks. But there aren't any. Maybe I'm spoiled by Canberra airport, where there's a row of desks for the different car rental places, and you can compare prices. Nothing like that in Miami. In fact, you have to get a shuttle bus off to the car rental place of your choice. Which means no chance to price compare. I picked Thrifty, since I supposedly get 5% off with them through a staff discount arrangement at work. Got myself a mid-sized car (Ford Taurus), that I can drop off at Key West Airport on Thursday. Remembered at the last minute to include a GPS. They guy tried to show me how it worked, and it completely failed to find my destination. (1900 Stirling Road in Fort Lauderdale, FL) We picked one that was nearby (2100 Stirling Road).
Now, from looking on Google Maps, I knew where the hotel was. It was just off the I-95, the eastern side of the Highway. Driving out onto the road was very, very strange. I was on the wrong side of the car, on the wrong side of the road. Every time I turned right, I had to fight myself from overshooting and getting on the wrong side of the road. On top of that, being unfamiliar with using a GPS, I accidentally set a new destination of almost exactly where I was, so it had me going around in a circle until I stopped and checked it. The default American voice was annoying and loud, but I was too busy driving to try adjusting the settings. At one point, while stopped at traffic lights, I changed the destination to where I knew the hotel was, rather than the incorrect street number we had picked on the other side of the highway.
At some stage, I should check on the road rules. I don't think I broke any (apart from occasionally speeding a touch. American speed limit signs are not very distinct, missing the red circle that I thought was an international symbol for speed limit signs), but I suspect there may be some rule about being able to turn right on a red light after stopping. I saw one sign that mentioned waiting for pedestrians before turning right on red. I played safe and waited for a green light. Found myself drifting towards the right hand side of the lane I was in a lot. (Wrong side of the car, see?) Driving along the I-95 was an experience. I don't think we have any five-lane highways in Australia. Not for long distances, anyway.
I reached my destination, according to the GPS, and according to Google Maps. No hotel. Bugger. Ok, well, lets see what this GPS can do for me. I type in the name of the hotel, and it finds it. Cool, set that as destination and Go! Strangely, this new location is quite some way away from Stirling Road. Well, whatever, the GPS should know what it's doing, right? Well, mostly; there were a few points when it wanted me to turn in a direction that was impossible due to traffic islands or simply the unfeasability of crossing four lanes of traffic in order to turn left in less than a hundred metres of road. (Oooh; another annoying thing. Being told to turn in 0.8 miles or 300 feet. Metres! Give me metres and kilometres! I understand them. Hmm. Okay, fixed.) I follow the directions, and it leads me to a race track. There's a hotel a little way down the road, but it's not the hotel I want. I pull into the hotel's car park, get out my laptop and check my hotel's location. Hmm. It says it's in Dania Beach, rather than Fort Lauderdale. Lets try that. Change the city to Dania Beach, and bingo! 1900 Stirling Road is now findable. And where is it, pray tell? Why, it's just on the other side of I-95. Fail, Google Maps! I'm a fair bit to the north, so it directs me back to the I-95 (now travelling south, where I'd gone north from Miami before) The GPS unit doesn't understand the hotel's parking lot, so I turn it off as I drive into the car park to stop it telling me to turn left.
The hotel
Best Western Fort Lauderdale Airport South Inn.
The I-95, Right next to the hotel
Google got a major fail when finding the hotel; it placed it on the other side of the highway.
On the other side of the I-95 is what I'm told by a Canadian couple who I met walking over there was described to them as a "little plaza". Here's just one of the stores.
K-Mart
Flippin' huge!
After eight on a Tuesday night (still!) I managed to find a store that could sell me a charger for my Treo (I forgot to pack one). I'm not sure I could have done that in Canberra at all, much less at that time of night. Then I went to Taco Bell and had some tacos. They taste almost exactly like the tacos I make. (Apart from the lack of refried beans.)
It all started even before I got to Canberra airport. About eight minutes out from the house, I realised I'd left my top hat at home. As we were on a fairly tight schedule, going back would have meant possibly being late, so I forged onward hatless.
At Canberra airport, everything went swimmingly. Got my suitcase and guitar checked in before the rush and had plenty of time to sit for a leisurely cuppa with Erika before being processed through security (where I was patted down for explosives residue).
The plane from Canberra to Sydney
I actually quite enjoy flying on these little turboprop planes.
Navigating Sydney was fairly straightforward. Got on the Qantas transfer bus, thus avoiding the expense and hassle of leaving the terminal and catching the regular terminal to terminal bus. An advantage of booking all the way through with Qantas. I sat myself down at one of the bars to have a cider while waiting for boarding time, and failed completely to find any kind of wireless network to connect to. Not even a secure one. Checked BIOS setting and Wireless switch on the laptop, all seemed like it should be working... (more on that later.)
Picked up a few titbits in the Sydney Duty-free store. (Unfortunately, Arnotts no longer make the mixed pack of different types of Tim-Tams, so I was forced to settle with just buying a little carry-bag chocked full of regular Tim-Tams.) Got to the gate in plenty of time to be an early boarder, so I had no trouble getting my stuff into overhead lockers. I paid extra for an exit row seat on the two long flights, so I could stretch my legs and get up without disturbing anyone. I introduced myself to my seat neighbours as they arrived. In the aisle seat was David, a pleasant Australian who'd been living in NY for ten years, and thus had that half-and-half accent that sounds American to Aussies, but Australian to Americans. A nice Canadian lady had the window seat; she was on her way home after travelling to Sweden, Australia, Bali, and back to Australia for her son's wedding in Manly.
On board in Sydney
In my seat, waiting to take off.
This was when things started to go wrong. We taxied out to the runway, at which time one of the cabin crew reported water leaking out of a light fitting in one of the galleys. Not wanting to try to fix it in flight, they taxied back to the terminus, and some fellows in yellow vests had a look in the ceiling:
Technicians fixing the leak
It was particularly surprising when they called for some blankets.
Getting that sorted out took nearly an hour, by which point I was beginning to wonder whether I'd have trouble getting my connection in LAX (LA International Airport), which I had discovered involved changing terminus there, too.
Off at last!
Finally in the air and headed for LAX!
Now, at some stage, I took my 10MP cheap camera and stuck it in one of the many pockets of my laptop bag, thus promptly losing it until I went though my bag thoroughly later on.
Not long after take-off, David on my right, who it turned out had an uncle who worked for Qantas, known by many of the cabin crew, got upgraded to Premium Economy as part of a shuffle of seating that got someone with a child moved to the place where they put them normally, and a young (and very tall) Australian called Steve took his place. Steve? Maybe it was Justin. Anyway, he was far less chatty than David.
A twelve hour flight is a long time. I tried to watch "All About Steve" on the in-flight entertainment system, but the headphones were incapable of overcoming the constant white noise during the soft bits. I watched something I'd seen before instead. Can't remember what it was, now. I tried listening to some podcasts, but kept dozing off. I ate the meals they gave us. I drank lots of water. I got up from time to time and walked about. I practised tango in the space beside the exit door while my neighbours were conked out wearing their blindfolds. I watched Tim Minchin's So Live. I watched some Simpsons episodes. There was nothing to see out the windows. It was night, and we were above the ocean until the very end of the flight, and then suddenly, there was something to see! Were my eyes deceiving me? No, those really were some mountains rearing above the cloud cover. A peculiar sight for us Australians. Our mountains just don't go that high, at least not where any planes fly. They were really pointy and jagged, too, rather than the softly rounded edges of Australian mountains. It was at this point that I realised I couldn't find my camera.
We arrived in LAX and the confusion began. Instructions flowed over tinny PA systems, in the plane and the terminal. They were contradictory, they were confusing. A crowd of people flowed out of the plane and along the corridors. Everyone had to collect their baggage and re-check it in. We came up to the border & immigration desks, where every station seemed packed, with long queues stretching out. But where were our bags? Didn't we have to collect them first? I walked almost the entire length of the terminal before realising that none of the people queuing up had more than their hand luggage. Just how many queues was I going to have to wait in?
Eventually, I joined a queue for visitors to the States. Then got moved across to a queue for US citizens and residents. Then got the chance to be fingerprinted and asked three times if I was there for business purposes. That's after handing over the two forms I had to fill out on the plane as well as the form I filled out online, which said I was there for a holiday, not business. But the USCBP person was nice enough, if somewhat brusque. And now I have my first stamp on my passport. And they stapled my departure record into my passport. Is that normal? Mutilating the passports of citizens of other nations?
So, through the Border Patrol checkpoint, I scurried over to the baggage carousel where I was fairly certain a couple of the announcements had said the baggage from our plane was. I got my suitcase there, but my guitar was nowhere to be seen. I had heard some mention of large baggage going somewhere else for a different flight, so I asked someone with a name badge, who directed me to a pile of large objects surrounded by a small crowd of people. There was my guitar! A small dent on the case, nothing to worry about. Glad I bought the proper flight case, rather than saving money and trusting to luck.
With no clear instructions, it seemed to be a case of just joining one of the many streams of people queuing up for the baggage inspection machines. All of which seemed to be sitting idle and unused. The lines progressed, and it seemed like they weren't checking anyone's bags today, thank you very much. They took the customs declaration forms and waved us on our way. Which was a good thing. If I'd been held up there, I don't know what I'd have done. Then it was up a couple of ramps, told to go that way, then told that it was too late for me to cross-check my bags there, and I'd have to take them to the other terminal. So outside I go, feeling exasperated and confused. An extremely helpful lady asked me where I was going, told me to calm down and breathe, and that the terminal I needed to go to was just a little way along the footpath. I was so grateful I gave far more money than I probably should have to the charity she was collecting for as a sideline.
So into the American Airlines terminal, and chaos. I saw a sign that said "bag drop" so I went there. Just as I got there, a lady took the sign away. I asked her where I could check in my bags, and she directed me to wait for the next check-in counter, which were all saying "online check-in". That didn't seem quite right, but surely she should know what she's talking about? At least better than I do?
Well, maybe not, I go up to the first counter that's free, who looks at my bags, tells me that since they already have all their tags, I should just take them to "the middle", where there are a bunch of guys feeding luggage through a scanner. I trundle over there, give my bag and guitar case over to a young fellow, who tells me I should wait in case they need to inspect the bags. I look at the time. I have ten minutes before boarding is supposed to start. I look at the queue of people running the entire length of the balcony above. I call over one of the guys and explain the timing situation. This guy tells me to get on upstairs, and prioritises my luggage in the queue for the scanner.
I head towards the escalator. There is a queue waiting to get on the escalator. They are only letting a few people up at a time. Maybe there are weight limitations on the balcony? I don't know. The queue of people is led outside, then progresses back in. Eventually, I get to go upstairs. Three minutes 'til boarding starts. I become part of the huge queue along the balcony. Halfway along, it splits, with some people going back the other way. There is no one to explain why this is happening. Some people are choosing to go that way. I'm not even certain what this queue is for, but I'm fairly sure I have to be in it. I choose to continue on to where I can see security check in ahead, rather than choose the vagaries of turning back and hoping that there is less queuing through that mysterious doorway. Was that a good choice? I'll probably never know. The Canadian lady who sat next to me from Sydney to LAX chose that path, and I never saw her again. Never found out her name, either.
Keep in mind here that this is Tuesday morning. Still, or again. I left Canberra on Tuesday morning, and now, fifteen or sixteen hours later, I'm in LA, and it's still Tuesday morning! I suppose when we crossed the date line it might have become Monday for a little while in the middle of the flight, but it never felt like Monday.
As I'm getting towards the end of the balcony, they're breaking people up into two different lines, and I see a couple in front asking to be treated special because of some priority reason. The man is short, white, balding and unattractive, and the lady is a beautiful black woman in a gold evening gown, excessive jewellery and a bored look. I kid you not. I instantly dislike them, with no rational reason. They are told to go to one of the lines. It doesn't look like it's going to be any quicker. I check the time. Boarding was supposed to start for my flight six minutes ago. I consider mentioning this to someone in charge, but there doesn't appear to be any way they have for speeding people up, and irrationally, I don't want to be like that couple. Eventually, I show my boarding pass and passport to the security guy and head for the scanner. I take off my shoes (quicker in the long run than having to go back if they do have metal bits in the soles, which is quite likely), sliding my laptop out of my bag, and dumping everything into trays. Thankfully, they don't decide to check me for explosives residue a third time, and I'm into the terminal at last. I put my laptop away, but I'm still carrying my shoes at this point. An announcement comes over the PA system (a system that could not be heard at all outside the security checkpoint!), the last call for boarding for my flight. The gate is, of course, at the very far end of the terminal building. Clutching my shoes and Tim-Tams in either hand, backpack on my back, I jog down the length of the building in my socks and am probably the last person on the plane. Whew! Made it.
Now, to be fair, if I hadn't made it, Qantas/American Airlines would have sorted it out for me and gotten me to Miami eventually, but who knows how long it would take?
The Transverse Ranges
Not the Rockies at all. See below.
With no idea where my camera was, and the fasten seatbelt sign left on for most of the flight, I remembered my Treo's camera, and snapped a few pics with it. Not very good quality, I know.
Down at Miami
And this is when the next chapter of my adventures begins. I went to get my luggage, to find that the security strap on my suitcase was gone. Couldn't find anything missing in the case, but the security strap was gone. Kind of makes you wonder what is the point of the strap, doesn't it? It was there at LAX, when I popped open the case to toss in the tube of Vegemite I bought at the Sydney Duty-Free. I asked the baggage desk about it, and she printed something off (without even asking me my name or what flight I was on) and bracketed the section of AA's baggage agreement that says that projecting items such as straps are not guaranteed to be safe. I tried to explain that this was not a loose strap flapping around that could get caught in mechanisms and torn off, this was a snugly fitting security strap! It seemed she wanted me to sign this pointless waste of time, but I just sighed in exasperation and walked away. Clearly, there was no help or explanation to be found. Fail, American Airlines, fail. Qantas, why do you partner with these people? They are not up to your standards.
Next up, I start to look for the car rental desks. But there aren't any. Maybe I'm spoiled by Canberra airport, where there's a row of desks for the different car rental places, and you can compare prices. Nothing like that in Miami. In fact, you have to get a shuttle bus off to the car rental place of your choice. Which means no chance to price compare. I picked Thrifty, since I supposedly get 5% off with them through a staff discount arrangement at work. Got myself a mid-sized car (Ford Taurus), that I can drop off at Key West Airport on Thursday. Remembered at the last minute to include a GPS. They guy tried to show me how it worked, and it completely failed to find my destination. (1900 Stirling Road in Fort Lauderdale, FL) We picked one that was nearby (2100 Stirling Road).
Now, from looking on Google Maps, I knew where the hotel was. It was just off the I-95, the eastern side of the Highway. Driving out onto the road was very, very strange. I was on the wrong side of the car, on the wrong side of the road. Every time I turned right, I had to fight myself from overshooting and getting on the wrong side of the road. On top of that, being unfamiliar with using a GPS, I accidentally set a new destination of almost exactly where I was, so it had me going around in a circle until I stopped and checked it. The default American voice was annoying and loud, but I was too busy driving to try adjusting the settings. At one point, while stopped at traffic lights, I changed the destination to where I knew the hotel was, rather than the incorrect street number we had picked on the other side of the highway.
At some stage, I should check on the road rules. I don't think I broke any (apart from occasionally speeding a touch. American speed limit signs are not very distinct, missing the red circle that I thought was an international symbol for speed limit signs), but I suspect there may be some rule about being able to turn right on a red light after stopping. I saw one sign that mentioned waiting for pedestrians before turning right on red. I played safe and waited for a green light. Found myself drifting towards the right hand side of the lane I was in a lot. (Wrong side of the car, see?) Driving along the I-95 was an experience. I don't think we have any five-lane highways in Australia. Not for long distances, anyway.
I reached my destination, according to the GPS, and according to Google Maps. No hotel. Bugger. Ok, well, lets see what this GPS can do for me. I type in the name of the hotel, and it finds it. Cool, set that as destination and Go! Strangely, this new location is quite some way away from Stirling Road. Well, whatever, the GPS should know what it's doing, right? Well, mostly; there were a few points when it wanted me to turn in a direction that was impossible due to traffic islands or simply the unfeasability of crossing four lanes of traffic in order to turn left in less than a hundred metres of road. (Oooh; another annoying thing. Being told to turn in 0.8 miles or 300 feet. Metres! Give me metres and kilometres! I understand them. Hmm. Okay, fixed.) I follow the directions, and it leads me to a race track. There's a hotel a little way down the road, but it's not the hotel I want. I pull into the hotel's car park, get out my laptop and check my hotel's location. Hmm. It says it's in Dania Beach, rather than Fort Lauderdale. Lets try that. Change the city to Dania Beach, and bingo! 1900 Stirling Road is now findable. And where is it, pray tell? Why, it's just on the other side of I-95. Fail, Google Maps! I'm a fair bit to the north, so it directs me back to the I-95 (now travelling south, where I'd gone north from Miami before) The GPS unit doesn't understand the hotel's parking lot, so I turn it off as I drive into the car park to stop it telling me to turn left.
The hotel
Best Western Fort Lauderdale Airport South Inn.
The I-95, Right next to the hotel
Google got a major fail when finding the hotel; it placed it on the other side of the highway.
On the other side of the I-95 is what I'm told by a Canadian couple who I met walking over there was described to them as a "little plaza". Here's just one of the stores.
K-Mart
Flippin' huge!
After eight on a Tuesday night (still!) I managed to find a store that could sell me a charger for my Treo (I forgot to pack one). I'm not sure I could have done that in Canberra at all, much less at that time of night. Then I went to Taco Bell and had some tacos. They taste almost exactly like the tacos I make. (Apart from the lack of refried beans.)