I’m mid flight, on my way home from a couple of days in Auckland for work. Auckland is New Zealand’s largest city and is responsible for my wild upbringing in its southern milieu of diversity and patchwork culture.
I’m in an aisle seat, stealing glances at the golden clouds beyond the curved rectangular window. My fellow passengers engrossed in their phones, tablets and the occasional book… I’m once again perturbed by the ability of those to cast their eyes past a formidable sunset in favour of a backlit screen.
Last night in Auckland I looked out at the eclectic mix of architecture and illogical disbursement of palm trees from my balcony. In the early 90s, Auckland city began its transformation from dated, poorly maintained ‘historical’ architecture to a state of constant construction. Architecture here tells a story through the decades of affluence and power that is seen only in the private sector, something that my newly appointed home city of Wellington lacks.
The lady across from me draws invisible squares on her tray table with the remnants of her in flight snack. The man to my left has adorned a Hawaiian shirt that is louder than a drum n bass gig after the beat drops.
I’m rambling… I start a new job on Monday… I’ve just said goodbye to some of my staff and the reality of change is sinking in. The sun sinks low into the sky, golden hues bathe the otherwise uneventfully grey clouds in memories of longing and wonder.
My mind joins my heart in a state of wonder and wandering. The wild winds of Wellington make for a turbulent landing. But I am home. For home is where my passport is.