The one big issue I have with early morning flights is, well, the early morning check-ins at the airport. Waking up was a problem – I worked around it by not sleeping at all – and trying to get to the airport at that unearthly hour just wasn’t fun.
With Northwest flight 6 from Singapore to Tokyo-Narita being renumbered to NW20 about a year ago, the flight now leaves a good 20 minutes earlier than the previous 6 am. Goodness gracious me, reaching the airport at 3.30 a.m. is really not a joke.
So now you imagine, forcing yourself to wake up at three in the morning, getting yourself to the airport at 4 am, and going through the unique Northwest process of individual security interview before checking in, before finally hitting your 34 inch wide seat an hour later. And when you hit that chair, boy, you really want to sleep. Especially if you didn’t sleep a wink at all because you fear that you won’t be able to wake up in time for the flight.
So I was all grouchy when I was in my chair, grumpily giving mono-syllabic answers to my overenthusiastic mother who has already spent over 300 bucks on cosmetics even before she set foot outside our sunny island. All I wanted was to hit my chair, and doze off under the constant drone of the flight.
As I belted myself into the seat, making myself comfortable with the tiny weeny pillow amongst the hustle bustle of the flight crew, suddenly a voice rang out across the cabin. I looked up. The captain was speaking. No, not over the public address system, but a tall, paunchy American, marked by that pilot’s peak cap, standing right in the cabin, talking to us with that Southern accent of his. He provided an overview of the flight and the weather conditions, all with the energy and warmth that you thought you’d only see in advertisements. “We’ll be flying through some shower clouds, but we will maneuver around them. Don’t worry, I’ve been doing this for years, and I don’t like these clouds either,” obviously an attempt to ease concerns with the recent A330 incident.
So off we go. And I thought that was the end of the fanfare. No. The PA system came on, and someone was playing the harmonica. And singing. Ohmygoodnessitwasthecaptainsinging…!!! He made his pre-flight briefing – again – this time round as a song.
*harmonica plays*
“6 hours 41 minutes.”
*harmonica plays*
“Singapore to Narita”
*harmonica plays*
“Some clouds and shower”
*harmonica plays*
“Don’t worry about them”
Alright, I was so tickled, I didn’t catch the rest of the song. I heard applause from the back of the cabin, and you’ll be wondering if the front half was either not listening, or totally not thrilled. I was.
Seven hours was a comfortable duration for the flight. With breakfast served shortly after take-off, I used the remaining time for Slumdog Millionaire, and snoozed in between snippets of the show. Economy class seats were never meant for heavy sleeping, so naps were all that I could comfortably snag.
Touching down at Narita airport, clearing immigration was a breeze. Even with the additional questionnaire that we had to fill out for H1N1 screening, we were out of the restricted zone barely half hour after landing.
And that’s where the adventure begins. In the land where language is going to be a barrier, my first task for this leg of the race to Osaka was to change my JR exchange voucher for the actual pass. Alright, I have it better: at least I know where’s my destination, and I got my route all planned out.
With some shameless queries and abstract map reading skills, we found the office. Okay I lied. The office wasn’t that difficult to find. It was just a trip down the escalator. Filled out the form, and got my pass, but with a surprise.
“You want to start your pass tomorrow? The Narita Express not working today. Spoil. If you go Tokyo, have to take Keisei.” I was headed to Osaka, I said. “Okay, you take Keisei line to Nippori, then change to JR. Yamamote Line to Tokyo. Then you take Shinkansen to Osaka,” He explained, why drawing out on a scrap piece of paper for my reference. He whipped out two complementary tickets (I supposed they were), and we were shooed off in the direction of the Keisei line where the train was waiting.
The trains are nothing like MRT back home. A tad older and smaller, but the people who ride them seem freer. No food restrictions on board – a couple of Japanese ladies were chatting over cans of beer – and no marked out seats, so that the same row of ladies could squeeze together to offer a tired toddler a seat to nap in. The train strolled past vast plains, nucleated with pockets of houses, under the idyllic Japanese afternoon sun.
I figured on the complicated map where we should get off. But looking at the masses of people with luggage bag, logic beckoned that most of these people are headed to Tokyo, and they will hence get off where I am supposed to get off. True enough. An hour into the ride, when the train pulled into Nippori, nearly everyone got off.
Through bustling Nippori station, we hopped onto the JR Yamamote line, bringing us to Tokyo station. Tokyo station is huge. Nothing like Grand Central in NYC, this place was obviously built in the local style of confusion. It took me a while to get to the JR reservation office to get reserved seats on the Shinkansen (which I could have done without, but just to be safe), and I chose a ride half hour later so I could grab a bite, and comfortably locate my platform.
We settled for some sushi and coffee as lunch. Sushi was brilliant, and mom couldn’t stop talking about how the ‘pearl rice’ is so different from the fragrant rice we have at home, and contributes to the taste. I agree, but I was too tired to show my enthusiasm and humor her.
The platform weren’t too difficult to locate, although the signs were misleading, and resulted in having my mother lug her luggage up two flights of stairs. That was pretty good exercise, I must say.
The Japanese are very punctual people, I must say. Even as the cleaners are still working hard to spruce up the train up to ten minutes before departure, the doors promptly opened minutes before departure, and when everyone boarded, the train left right on the dot. Like clockwork, the train pulled into each of its destined stop at the given time.
The comfortable ride, with the spacious seat, had me slipping in and out of sleep during the three-hour ride to Osaka. As the sun sets, the surrounding stations fade into a field of darkness as well. As the train finally pulled into Shin-Osaka, two tired figures, with their trolley luggage, ambled out of the station in search of their hotel.
