I'm back in the world. It's still there.

Travelling internationally is the same but with masks.

Lunch on the terrace of Isabelle Huppert’s apartment, Martinez Hotel, Cannes, December 6 2021. Photo: Lee Tulloch

One thing, OK maybe two things, that I learnt from my 24-hour flight from Sydney to Nice on Sunday:

• The world has not changed that much. We just wear masks now.

• Don’t worry.

Oh, and maybe spending 24 hours in economy is a privilege but the experience will never be anything but a horror. COVID makes it slightly worse.

Despite girding myself for long lines and lots of frayed tempers at the airport, the departure from Sydney was smooth and civilised. Ground crew from my airline (in this case Emirates) greeted me at the entrance and then checked all my documents. (After much kerfuffle, we needed a PCR test in the end - I recommend Histopath in the capital cities for a very speedy turnover and a moderate fee.) I was handed a slip of paper and instructed to take it to the check-in counter to facilitate the luggage check-in. I was through to immigration in about ten minutes. It was breathtakingly efficient.

If you’re a business traveller or if you have gold or platinum status, many lounges in Australian airports still aren’t open. I’d read that Qantas business class and gold status travellers were permitted to use the justly-celebrated Sydney First Class Lounge while the other lounges were closed.

I had been dreaming of their famous pavlova all week and fantasising about the glass of Bollinger I’d have with it to speed me on my way. But the lounge was closed, and I was directed instead to the Plaza Premium Lounge (a misnomer) near the gates. The offerings were a bowl of gluggy noodles, a vinegary Shiraz and a one-inch square of carrot cake, but the lounge had a great view of the tarmac. I felt like I was finally going somewhere.

Retail therapy to calm your nerves is still possible. Many shops and duty free are open. You can grab a Chanel fragrance or a toy wombat before you board. Or a giant Toblerone, that classic souvenir of Australia.

Boarding was quite orderly and normal. The plane was packed with families travelling to be reunited with their much-missed parents, grandparents and friends overseas.

I had the bad luck of choosing a seat in what turned out to be in the nursery section of the plane. I don’t mind babies on planes and they don’t cry as much as you think they might - besides, the poor tykes have to travel some way.

In this case, there were three infants in the row across the aisle, two in the row in front, two in the back and a chorus of other babies throughout the cabin. The three across and the two in front screamed almost the entire flight, reaching a cacophony that could almost have been orchestrated for the last three hours before arrival in Dubai. (I taped it, I might play it for you.) I could not hear my movie even with noise-cancelling headphones. Thank goodness the film had subtitles.

In the COVID era, you can’t even offer to help. The flight attendants certainly didn’t. I try not to be judgemental about parents, but the guy in front of me seemed to think lots of clapping loudly would distract his baby out of its crying jag. Maybe it worked on the ground. But in the air, the poor thing got even more hysterical and I don’t blame it one bit.

Anyway, that’s all over. I was slightly horrified on the second leg to Nice to find that, despite all the stuff about social distancing, we were packed into the narrow seats of the 777 with barely a few inches of space. (Advice to the wise - always if you can book the Emirates A380, the 777 cabin is decidedly inferior.) There was a tall guy squeezed into the middle seat beside me and he encroached on my space, elbow in my ribs, feet almost resting on mine. It wasn’t his fault. But I had whatever COVID he might have had with my lunch.

When I did a lap of the cabin later, only half the passengers had their masks on or above their noses.

Wearing a mask for 24 hours on a flight is a bit fiddly, slightly claustrophobic when you have an eyemask and headphones on, but basically fine. We can deal with it. It’s not the Blitz, they’re not gas masks.

Despite all my obsessing with the correct documents for France - THEY DID NOT ASK FOR THEM. Of course, that’s typically French too. At Nice airport, I asked the immigration officer if she wanted to see my dossier. She just wanted to look at the PCR test. That’s it. Less than one minute with her and I was through!

In the golden afternoon light, Cannes looked beautiful. Her citizens were promenading along the Croisette with their families, lovers and cute dogs. The funfair and famous old carousel were in full swing. The beach clubs in the sand were still open, decorated with Christmas trees and Santa sleighs. No one much wore masks outside.

This morning I had my Australian vaccination certificate translated without fuss into a French pass sanitaire at a local pharmacy (cost €36.) I forgot all my pin numbers because of jetlag and did by mistake try to recharge my non-existent Orange phone at an ATM rather than extract money, but apart from this, all has gone without crisis.

Later, I had lunch on the rooftop terrace of Isabelle Huppert’s apartment in the Martinez Hotel, with views of all Cannes. (Isabelle wasn’t there, sadly.)

The risk of travel in the age of COVID suddenly seems worth it.

The one thing I have learnt with a certain degree of maturity is not to worry so much about things. Plan, prepare, sure. But don’t obsess.

I learn this gem of wisdom time and time again and never take my own advice. It’s like living in a personal Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, remembering things I’ve lost, then losing them again.

I shouldn’t have worried. The world might be different, but it’s the same.

I’ll be reporting again in a couple of days from Cannes and then again, Paris. Do subscribe to A Real Trip if you’re interested.

And if you have any worldly advice about travel, or any questions, please join the conversation.