Gate Of Many Returns

How many times now had I stood by this departure gate?

The same luggage shop, the same signposts to the crash-matted multi-faith airport chapel, the same World News where I’d bought a Cherry Coke to cheer myself up, the same group of Asians on the same sofas by the same huge windows under the same TV set, where I must therefore presume they live. (After all, the only thing more unlikely than those people still waiting there years later, was surely that I was)

The journey to the airport this time had been matter-of-fact. I hugged my mum goodbye again, she said “You know I want the best for you, don’t you?” to which I had replied “I don’t really want to go, but if you had the chance to spend six weeks in another country, you’d take it, wouldn’t you?”

I recalled how, the first time I had flown the 26 hours to New Zealand, they had screened The Matrix Revolutions to try to make the journey go a bit slower. In those circumstances, as with all mediocre in-flight movies, I’d welcomed it like a good friend.

Now it was hard to forget. All that pesky social relevance that films are so keen on nowadays, kept flashing into my mind offering advice and a commentary on my life.

Oracle: "Now, since the real test for any choice is having to make the same choice again, knowing full well what it might cost - I guess I feel pretty good about that choice, 'cause here I am, at it again."

Oh there was a lot of other stuff about the Trainman, and the Frenchman, and the Icecreamman etc., but that was all a bit highbrow for me.

Anyway, it was all up to God, so through the gate I went…

…and blow me if God didn’t take me all the way around the world straight back to New Zealand again.