Don't Catch the Train

If only I had such words of advice before I boarded the Hell That Was the Indian Pacific. It's like the Hotel California of the rails. There was no escape. The food was awful, overcooked and congealing, grey watery flavourless overpriced. Worst of all, the seats were uncomfortable beyond comprehension, and we were expected to sleep in them for two nights. As a result, nobody slept for the two nights but rather spent thirty eight hours fitfully dozing, firstly chilled to the bone by the artificial air and then sweltering stickily in the Nullarbor glare as it heated up the metal carriage and cooked us through the windows. Andy and I theorised that it was all part of a sort of conspiracy to keep us sedated; constantly lethargic and lacking in energy from the ghastly food we were unable to complain about the fact we were treated like cattle. As a result, arriving in Adelaide was incredible and the twenty four hours we stayed made me have a whole new level of respect for the place. We ate fantastically well, drank awesome coffee. Slept. Today we drove nine hours to Melbourne and we fly back to New Zealand tomorrow evening. There is a German couple behind me giggling and its making me rather paranoid. Its 10.30 but it feels as though it should be a lot earlier. I've crossed three time zones in four days and my body clock is a little confused.