Twenty-five years ago we embarked on an amazing journey in life together. It also marked the first and only times we flew from Sydney to Europe without a proper stopover between flights. Sydney to Bangkok to London to Paris and back with Qantas. I remember the flight there, the long delay on board in Bangkok with a technical fault, the late arrival into London and Paris. After the buzz of the wedding, it was a wonderful flight and I was almost sad to leave. The return was a blur.
I have gone on so many overseas flights since then. Five more times have I flown to Europe, the last almost eight years ago. All those times we have spent at least a day or a night in a transit city between Sydney and our final destination, splitting the journey in two. This time we fly to Singapore with barely two hours in the airport, barely enough time to use the bathroom and pass through gate security again, before flying to Paris. On the way back it is an even longer flight via Perth instead.
So much has changed twenty-five years later as we prepare to celebrate the anniversary. We now have a child, one who is accompanying us on this journey to celebrate a milestone birthday and the end of high school. I have also changed.
Once upon a time flying thrilled me. Now I feel anxiety in the lead up to each flight. Fear of turbulence, fear of what will happen when we arrive, the fear of whether I can cope with such long flights.
I am scared to get excited about this trip. Frightened that if I dream my travel fantasies that I will just be disappointed by the reality. That storms or clear air turbulence will be lurking on the route, that I won’t be able to sleep and end up in a terrible state, unable to check in so early at our destination. I catastrophise about accidents or being robbed because I am too tired. I check the weather. Rain and storms forecast for the afternoon, the potential for a rough ascent. There are marches and riots across France, spreading elsewhere in Europe. Train crashes, sabotage. And I am responsible not just for my own safety, but those of my loved ones.
I get sick in the lead up to the trip, lose my appetite, shut myself away wanting to curl up and cry myself to sleep.
I do what I can to reassure myself. Trackers for bags, spare phones in case of loss (or more likely, a flat battery from too much use) and other things too. Pack early, making sure I have everything I need. Try to do the housework early too. I want to use these last few days to focus.
It doesn’t quite work out like that, for the others are more spontaneous, not sharing my concerns. They are lucky. They can leave the worrying to me.
Last night I slept poorly, the Caesar salad that was my dinner insufficient, had bad dreams.
This evening I decide I need to centre myself, so I drive off to the coast, to Kurnell and Cronulla. Watch the aircraft taking off over the bay, the fish dart in the water, birds preen on the rocks, listen to the gentle sound of the waves, the smell of seaweed. It seems to work. I am hungry/not hungry, buy myself a milkshake at Cronulla. A liquorice flavoured one, because I am all alone and I can. But when I get home I can barely finish a sweet bun, slices of mango.
I hope that I can find the joy tomorrow.