And so it begins...

25-25 April (gotta love the extra day)

Our nine-week honeymoon adventure started with a wildlife adventure a little closer to home. In our toilet on the second floor of our home, at 5am the morning we left.

I like to think our house is a little bit special, that our garden is a little magical. We have a thriving herb and veggie garden, which we share with all sorts of beautiful animals and insects. Cockies eat wattle seeds from the tree overhanging our deck while hiding from minah birds. King parrots eat the lettuce in the pots on our deck and chat to us about how tasty it is. Magpies eat our cheese and crackers and anything else left on the table on our deck when we're not paying attention. Lorikeets eat seed and drink water from containers we hold, perched on our hands below the plum tree. Geckos skit from rock to rock, hiding from our cats. And from our neighbours' cats, who come to play with Indi and get high on cat mint, cat thyme and cat nip in the sunshine, lying on the sun-baked pavers. Praying mantis are well hidden in the lemon balm. Bees get drunk in our lavender hedge, kindly not stinging me when I brush past them when weeding. Butterflies flit among the sage (and cabbages!). Garden spiders build intricate webs between rosemary bushes and lemon grass, and somehow aren't washed away when we turn the sprinkler system on. Huntsmen the size of dinner plates take up residence in our front lounge, where they entertain the cats for days - always just out of their reach. And hundreds of snails feast on anything green and juicy, from horseradish and kale to sorrel and silver beet. We tend to let nature run her course and give each life room to live, as much as possible.

The morning we left, as I flushed the toilet, I looked down and noticed something odd on the rim of the bowl. Something brown. I'm a bit of a clean freak and had made sure the house was in tip top condition for our house sitters, so took a second look. Then a third. Clinging to the rim, partly hidden under the seat, was a large adult snail (no sh*t!). What we presume was a night time wander up two storeys, through the open window, down the wall and into the toilet bowl had left our poor friend in a rather precarious position (who knew snails could travel so far in five hours?). Slightly perplexed, but not too surprised, I picked him/her up and popped him/her outside where conditions were a little more favourable.

The surprises that morning continued, with our taxi driver arriving early, his cab not smelling of vomit (unusual considering it was the early morning of an Australian public holiday) and him knowing the way to the airport, not playing offensive talk back on the radio and not making inane conversation. On the other hand, Chris wouldn't stop talking. I don't feel much like talking first thing in the morning, let alone about breakfast at 6am.

I don't have the greatest track record with airport customs and immigration and security checks. I think it's karma for giving cheek to what was probably a very nice customs official in LA when I was about 10. In the midst of what was likely a 30-hour trip home from England, with several plane changes in those days, he apologetically asked to search my bag, saying he had to at least look like he was doing his job. I retorted that if he did, he'd have to pack it back up himself because it was too hard and I wasn't going to do it again. It probably wasn't the first (or last) time mum wished she'd stopped at three kids. Since then, I usually get stopped for random drug searches, fruit and veg searches, explosives scans and pat downs. And it seems this trend is continuing for our honeymoon. It was about 7.30am and just as I finished my first G&T sample and was eagerly eyeing off the whiskey stands, my name was called over the PA. "Excellent!", we thought. "Chris' brother's contacts at Qantas have come through with the goods and upgraded us - we just have to pick up our new boarding cards!" Sadly, we received no special treatment. They were just double-checking my paperwork and visa status for the States, despite having covered this online when I booked and when we dropped off our bags.

Chris managed to sleep for most of the flight, but although I tried, I failed, and ended up watching far too many movies, leaving me slightly delirious and sobbing at the end of Les Mis.

In LA, it became clear that the visa information had got lost in translation. The nice customs and immigration man politely told me I hadn't been on the flight - despite my boarding card, jet lag and having waited with fellow passengers for 90 minutes in the queue. It seems Qantas had somehow given me a boarding pass and boarded me, but failed to put me on their passenger list. I spent some time with this official and his manager, who manually entered my details into their system, assuring them I had no criminal records and hadn't been stopped at any other US airports for carrying fruit or veg (he asked! I was stopped once in Perth, when a beagle picked up the waft of a long gone banana I'd taken for a work snack the week before, but didn't think this was pertinent to add), and proffering multiple forms of ID upon request. Just as they let me through and we left to collect our bags, he called me back to go through all the fingerprinting and eye scanning and photo checks again, so he could put something on my (permanent) record to stop me being held up again. Fingers crossed for our return trip through LA!

We found our airport shuttle, which eventually dropped us at our hotel. It was still early - midday - but despite my best efforts, I promptly passed out on top of the bed, drooling into my pillow, while Chris watched Judge Judy on TV. Thus began our romantic honeymoon abroad!

After a few hours' rest, we ventured outside for a stroll up and down Hollywood Boulevard, to check out the stars on the pavement - and there were hundreds. I thought they were just for movie stars, but it seems TV stars, musicians, producers, directors - almost anyone - can have one. It was the first day of a classic movie festival, so half of the road was cordoned off and lined with a red carpet and security. We stopped for a while and watched who we believed to be famous people walking up it and being interviewed. The only person we recognised was one of the anchors from NBC Today, Katie Couric, who posed awkwardly for her team and tourists alike.

In need of sustenance and with a lack of anything better to do, we ended up in Hooters. It's an interesting place, where attractive young ladies, all dolled up and with cleavage (top and bottom) on show, take your orders and stop for a chat. We couldn't quite work out why they had to climb a ladder to clip your order onto a flying-fox style wire linked to the kitchen, flinging it to the chef and yelling out "Hooter girl!". But after two long island iced teas (to celebrate my brother's birthday) and some onion rings, and having had only about five hours' sleep in two days, it seemed logical to buy myself a Hooters t-shirt. I guess I can always wear it to bed.

I clearly needed another drink, so at one of the many Mexican restaurants near our hotel, I ordered a chilli margarita. It took about an hour and plenty of water for me to drink it. It's fair to say it was hotter than my meal - or any meal I've had - and I can be quite generous with the chilli.

Proud of ourselves for having made it to 10pm, we went back to our hotel, where Chris resumed the snoring he'd begun on the plane.