Twenty-Four Hours Later

There were several weeks of diminishing motivation, clouding anxieties, and sharp fears of regret. Then the week before my flight I felt excitement rise up again as I looked over the details of my flight and hostel, remembered the activities and attractions on my Perth to-do list. But before I could go, I had to finish saying goodbye.

The weekend was a parade of familial goodbyes. We had lunch out with my Nan on the Saturday at a café in the New Forest – this was also a goodbye to the delicious vegan scones they make there – which was a nice pocket of quality time before I tucked myself away in the afternoon to do all the packing I’d left until the last minute. I’d encouraged (forced) my Mum to assist, reminding her that it would be a while before she’d be so lucky to spend time with me doing such things again… Somehow it worked. 

On the Sunday, after a morning of a family breakfast and board games (still in the Christmas spirit?), I said goodbye to my dog with lots of scritches and cuddles, fully aware that to her this was just the attention she always deserved. And then we embarked on the journey to Heathrow, stopping along the way in the delightful English town of Staines for dinner. Where else would you want to spend your last hour dining in the UK? Luckily, they have Wagamamas there (which they don’t in Australia) so I said goodbye to their delicious katsu curry for a while – and engaged with my family too.

They accompanied me for as much of the journey as they could: to the airport, to the Cathay Pacific check-in, and then to security. I think they enjoyed watching as I had to switch queues, got confused over my baggage, and asked for help at the desk. They applauded when I returned from check-in twenty minutes later, one bag lighter, beaming over the window seat allocations on my boarding passes. 

And then we said goodbye. Two hugs each, and one group one. To some this might seem excessive. I’m just hoping it was enough. 

I went seamlessly through security – if it is still seamless to have to repack your entire bag only moments after you’ve managed to close the zipper. Then it was into the bright, hazy lights of duty free, which I ignored, except for the perfume, which I decided to test (in the knowledge that I wouldn’t be able to shower again for over twenty-four hours). 

Time doesn’t really exist in the departure lounge. It is merely a guide, a suggestion of when to begin the next stage of your travel. 10am, 2pm, 11pm, 3am… all of them take place in a similar atmosphere. There were children crying, their adults shushing, and all the rest shifting in their seats, trying to mask the fear that manifested on their faces at the thought of sharing a cabin, or worse, a row, with a screaming companion. 

My gate appeared on the departure board at 20.50 (but it could have been any other time), and I hiked to it, my two cabin bags and a neck pillow hanging from my person. After a delayed boarding, we took off an hour later than intended, and I felt grateful that the change in my flight had manufactured a longer layover. 

Both flights were long: the first twelve and a half hours, followed by seven and a half. With the two hour plus layover, and the time spent in Heathrow waiting for departure, it was about twenty-four hours from arriving at the first airport, to landing at the final. An entire day lost to travel, half-sleep, and mediocre films that were interrupted by announcements about delays. I nourished myself with snacks from home and the airport, the fruit platters I was served as a ‘special meal’, and not enough water. Along with probably not hydrating enough, I also made the mistake of not moving enough – the window seat has the small consequence of needing to ask two strangers to move every time you want to get up, which I was hesitant to do when my companions were snoring. This resulted in landing at Perth airport and finding my shins had swollen in size, the cuff of my trousers leaving an embarrassing reminder cut into my skin. 

I joined the crowds to passport control, through to baggage claim, and finally to border security, where I handed over my declaration form and was waved through. I had made it. It was now half-past seven in the morning, Perth time, making it half-eleven back home. I’d spent the past twenty-four hours in perpetual night mode yet unable to sleep with any restfulness, and now it was a new day. The Australian heat from the glorious summer sun beckoned me.

I followed.