I’ve Been Crossing the Pacific for Over 11 Years and Still Haven’t Cracked The Code on Jetlag

How to Survive a Flight That Lasts Longer Than Some Relationships...

I was sitting in 35B somewhere over the Pacific, watching a man in compression socks argue with a seatbelt before applying eyedrops with the solemn focus of a bomb disposal technician, when it occurred to me that I may now officially qualify as a professional long-haul traveller.

I’ve done the Perth to New York run more times than Trump has posted bad takes about a celebrity death. My body no longer recognises time as a concept. I’ve done every version of it -every route, every good way, every bad way, every airline, screaming babies, people dying in their sleep mid-flight (yup 😳), and everything in between.

My first trip to America was when I was 9 years old. I went to LA with my mum and aunt. That’s when I got the bug. I went back in 2006, got a hit of New York directly into my veins, and never looked back. I would make the trek there nearly every year from Perth, or later Melbourne, and try every trick in the book to hack my body.

Perth, Western Australia, and Manhattan, New York, are the furthest two points on Earth that don’t actively resent each other. If you drilled a hole straight down under the Hudson River, past the rats, past the magma, past whatever bodies the Jersey mafia buried in ‘86, you’d pop out somewhere near my high school. I am as far as you can physically get on this planet from my hometown.
My mother is just thrilled about it.

The article going around right now by fellow Perth-born New Yorker, Katherine Gillespie about curing jetlag and surviving this epic journey, offers a lot of sensible advice. Light exposure. Strategic naps. Melatonin. Hydration. Movement. All excellent in theory. In practice, I moved to New York eleven years ago and now exist in a permanent state of temporal confusion; My body thinks it’s 2009. My phone thinks it’s Tuesday. My soul knows it’s time for a meat pie.

Let’s start with the plane itself.

Economy is an endurance sport. Premium economy is a small miracle. Business class is a religious experience I only hear about from others. The article recommends choosing seats carefully, and I agree. I once spent fifteen hours wedged between a man who needed to explain the finer points of NFTs to me in great detail and a woman who believed shoes were optional. I now pay attention to seat maps like they’re medical charts.

There’s also the advice about preparing entertainment.

Download movies. Download shows. You tell yourself this flight will be productive. You’ll write. You’ll organise your life. You’ll finally answer those emails from six months ago. Instead, you watch an entire season of Designated Survivor on your iPad, look up shocked that it’s over, and immediately start another one. The plane lands. You have achieved nothing except emotional attachment to a fictional cabinet.

Every time I fly back from Australia, I tell myself this will be the trip where I crack the code on the TSA, and every time, I’m fighting with a Singaporean security agent about my laptop or belt buckle, then mentally replaying the incident in my mum’s kitchen at 4am, eating dry cereal out of the box and staring into the middle distance.

Hydration matters.

The article is right. You drink water constantly, while your nose dries out like it’s being gently mummified. Eyedrops become currency. Lip balm, a personality. You walk the aisle occasionally to remind your knees that they still belong to you.

The first mistake people make is thinking jetlag is something you “beat.” You don’t beat it. You negotiate with it. You bargain. Jetlag is less a medical condition and more a personality trait you acquire after crossing the great ocean enough times.

Yes, light helps. I force myself outside like a reluctant houseplant. I walk the neighbourhood at odd hours, squinting into the sun, pretending I’m human. Yes, movement helps. I go for walks when my legs feel like they’ve been replaced with damp towels.

Melatonin is …tricky.

One milligram, maybe two. Any more and you wake up feeling like you’ve been emotionally haunted. Maybe you try Diazepam. Maybe Ambien. Or Zzz-Quill. Try everything. Naps are trickier. The article says twenty minutes. Twenty minutes is a lie. Twenty minutes becomes ninety minutes, and suddenly you’re wide awake at midnight, reorganising your suitcase and mentally replaying every conversation you’ve ever had at full volume.

After eleven years in New York, here’s the only advice I fully trust: Pick the timezone you’re in and behave as if it’s real. Eat when people eat. Sleep when people sleep. Be tired in public like everyone else.

I’ll be performing comedy there for the first time in many years, which feels strange and lovely. That’s where I started doing comedy in 2007. I get to see my family. I get two summers this year. It’s -10C in New York while the Southern Hemisphere is gearing up for a scorcher.

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If you’re going to be in Perth on the 20th or 27th, I’ll be doing shows at the Comedy Lounge. Visit their website for tickets and details!

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Eventually, your body catches up. Or it gives up. It’s hard to tell. But after enough trips, you realise jetlag doesn’t go away. It just becomes part of you. Like your accent. Or your dog. Or the quiet knowledge that you live very far from where you were born, and you did it on purpose.

‘til next time

Your pal