Transit

A direct flight, point A to point B – because nobody wants to be in stranded in transit wearing crusty knickers while searching for a power point. Unless of course that transit time means it’s about one thousand dollars cheaper per flight and you’re paying for six tickets at a time. And maybe, on the bright side, transit provides us the headspace to realise we’ve moved from one place to another.

We’ve tried every option. Direct from Qatar to Melbourne, a quick trip to Dubai to then fly on to Adelaide. We’ve left early in the morning, late at night. Do flights actually leave between 8am and 5pm because I seriously cannot recall driving to the airpot without being in a seriously sleep deprived state.

We chose Doha, Hong Kong, Adelaide. Point A, B and C.

And if there is transiting to be done, Hong Kong’s not a bad place to do it. Without thinking, hunger leading the way, I stopped in a cafe on my last trip. When the children talked of shrimp dumplings I suffered from serious FOMO.

“Where were the dumplings? I didn’t see any dumplings?”

“They’re everywhere Mum! Just look for the dead ducks”

I found them.

ducks

As I walked from gate 32 to 21 I noted the gates, the queues as people waited to board: Hanoi, Shanghai, Bangkok.

“Have you ever lived in Vietnam?” the hairdresser asked me yesterday, her salon is just down the road from the beach house.

“No, good friends have, they loved it.” I picture a girlfriend I met in Jakarta who’s now in New Zealand, our Doha friends who are living in Nice. G and I are still missing them terribly.

“You guys get around don’t you” she shook her head and smiled.

I headed upstairs to the food hall and found the dead ducks. Below me travellers march like ants, I order the shrimp dumplings, grab a beer and begin to text G who is sitting in the bleachers at baseball in Doha.

Transit. The last step before re-entry.

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