Leaving. Again

It’s turning out to be a rougher flight than I expected. According to the map on the back of the seat in front of me we are just crossing the northern Australian coastline. Darwin is apparently to the north west of us, although the thick clouds outside the window suggest that it is equally likely that we are at the North Pole. Our entry to the airspace above the Arafura Sea has been met with quite some meteorological resistance, so the captain has switched on the seatbelt sign, which always makes me nervous mid-flight. Actually, I am nervous for the duration of any flight, but this one is proving to be particularly challenging. For this time, as well as being physically jostled and tossed in my seat I also feel anxious, excited, guilty, concerned, grateful, and a little confused about exactly which country my head is in. Turns out it’s split between two.

Almost three weeks ago, Ned Nederlander, De Jongens and I flew into Sydney for a Christmas visit. Until recently, that flight would have marked the end of a three year ex-pat adventure in the Lowlands; we were due to come “home” to the harbour city to stay. We had expected to close the book on our three year adventure and fall comfortably back into step with the kith and kin who had so graciously encouraged our odyssey in the first place. Instead, a couple of months ago we made the exhausting, excruciating, exhilarating decision to stay in the Lowlands for a few more years. Arriving at that decision was torturous, as the long-suffering friends who propped us up during the process will attest. Weighing up the relative benefits of life in Sydney and Amsterdam felt like making a choice between the mango pannacotta and the chocolate tasting plate at the end of a sumptuous feast. A little bit of both would be perfect, but sadly not a menu option.

 

Our final decision to remain a while longer in the Lowlands meant that the planned permanent homecoming morphed into a temporary visit. Suddenly that visit is over and as I type, we are en route back to an extended Lowlands experience. Somewhat unexpectedly, I’m finding that a bit confronting.

Our drive to the airport this morning was subdued and pensive. At the check-in counter, I was surprised by a sudden desire to call the whole thing off and go straight to the beach for one more pine-lime Splice. Minutes later the universe seemed to be colluding with me, as my old and battered passport refused to allow itself to be scanned. While official brows were furrowed and calls to supervisors were made, I decided to avoid asking the obvious question of why my passport number could not simply be typed manually into the computer like in the old days. Truth is, I was secretly thrilled at the thought that I might be granted a few more days of harbour-side seafood lunches with girlfriends while a replacement passport was produced. My fantasy was short-lived however as moments later I was waved through the barrier with a cheery and oh-so-Australian “you’re good to go, love”. I strolled over to my waiting family, still puzzled as to why I was not more enthusiastic about returning to the Lowlands.

Now, some hours into the flight, I remain confused and conflicted. The in-flight map on the screen in front of me shows the familiar outline of Australia disappearing behind me. A figurative aeroplane glides over the map, indicating our current location. I concentrate hard and will the little plane to turn around, but I am childishly distressed to realise that it is after all moving forward, millimetre by millimetre. A solid yellow stripe emanates from the tail of the graphic aeroplane and stretches all the way back to Sydney, reminding me of where I’ve come from. A dashed yellow line stretches out across the ocean in front of us, indicating where we are going next. It disappears off the side of the map, reminding me that I really have no idea where I am headed, other than to the edge. I am worried that this yellow line is a pixellated cartographic allegory for my life, but then I am unexpectedly cheered by the realisation that even in my mental confusion, I can still generate phrases like “pixellated cartographic allegory”. How good is this third glass of wine??

The flight information screen is a veritable smorgasbord of data but frankly it adds to my confusion. For example, I so wish that I didn’t know that it’s 6:58pm where I’ve just come from, 3:58pm where I am heading for a brief stopover, and 8:58am at my final destination. How on earth (or in the air) am I supposed to process that in my current emotional state? It is equally unhelpful for me to learn that it is 30^oC at my departure airport, minus 55^oC outside the window where I am currently sitting, 16^oC at my imminent stopover destination and probably 1^oC or less at my final destination.

So, here I am, being propelled through the sky in a metal tube, more than eleven kilometres above the coastline of my homeland. Apparently, in 5 hours and 18 minutes the tube will come to a stop and I will be squeezed out of it. I will wait a few hours before entering another metal tube and continuing to travel backwards in time and space for a further twelve and a half hours on my mind-bending, emotion-contorting journey. By then I will be fundamentally altered, hemispherically, temporally, seasonally and thermally. I will need to then gather myself for a potentially uncomfortable conversation with a Dutch immigration officer, who will no doubt expect a good explanation for the fact that my residency permit expired yesterday, and who is likely to take some convincing that I expect an extension to be forthcoming any day now. At that, I wonder if the pilot would consider turning around and delivering me back to Sydney, but emotional exhaustion gets the better of me and I fall asleep before I can ask him.

On waking I watch a movie, titled somewhat prophetically “This is Where I Leave You” (spooky, huh?). Four adult siblings spend a week with their loving but eccentric mother (oooh, that’s a bit close to the bone).

They laugh, reminisce, confess, squabble, expose, reveal, infuriate, divide and unite (is it just me or is it hot in here?). In the final dramatic scene, one of the siblings is inspired to leave the family gathering somewhat impetuously, jump into a conveniently parked convertible and drive, wind in hair, uplifting music pounding, to a distant destination that he has long dreamed about visiting (okay, that's enough). Actually, the plot is much more sophisticated than I make it sound, but it’s hard for me to channel sophistication while I am snivelling like a baby at the thought of leaving my own family and friends some hours earlier.

Somewhere around the time we crossed the equator (I guess it was near the very point where water starts to go down the drain in the opposite direction), my spinning head finally calmed. In Hong Kong airport, we were reunited with friends from Amsterdam who were transferring onto the same flight as us. Sitting with them at the departure gate, chatting about mutual friends, speculating about emerging controversies at our local football club and observing the easy friendship between their boys and De Jongens was grounding and reassuring. I became aware of a number of people around us speaking Dutch; the much-loved soundtrack of our lowlands life, and I happily let it wash over me (while pondering how good it would be if I understood more than one word in fifty). Meanwhile, Grote Jongen nodded at a stunning girl standing nearby and when I raised a curious maternal eyebrow he was quick to explain that she was in his grade at school. Kleine Jongen stopped talking about the Australian cricket team and instead returned to musing aloud about the English Premier League. Ned Nederlander mentioned work for the first time in a fortnight and casually remarked that he’d be making a day trip to Germany in a couple of days. So began the slow re-entry to my other world, and with it the gradual settling of my turbulent emotions.

Taxiing from the terminal in Hong Kong for the last leg of my latest journey, I pondered the incredibly good fortune of being able to leave one place I call “home” in order to go to another place I also call “home”, and to be equally enamoured with them both. I considered the great gift of being equally “at home” in two cities on opposite sides of the globe, and the even greater gift of being free to choose between them. It seems the price of such a privilege is that I am destined to live with my heart split between two countries, my head swivelling Janus-like between them, my feet itching relentlessly to skip to the other place and then wanting to come back again.

For now I'll happily pay that price, and endure the occasional turbulence that goes with it. So this is where I leave you ... at least until I come back.