The U-Turn

It was the walk to the gate that did it.

Forty-five minutes of killing time in the departure lounge had already taken its toll on my nerves; I had paced through countless aisles of gaudy, kitsch souvenirs drowned in the Union Jack that I imagined would be presented to some dewy-eyed children in a land far away and that would instill in them the idea that Great Britian was draped in its flag like an ecstatic, perenial coronation. I had talked to siblings and parents on the phone for tens of minutes on end, expressing my farewells and intentions to return as they simultaneously attempted to quell my well-known pre-flight unease and assure me that six months would be over before I knew it had begun. I had swallowed hard at every line. I had grudgingly made a trip to the airport toilets to empty my quaking bowels one last time and to clandestinely spray myself with anti-perspirant I had purchased from the Boots in the departure lounge. I had sweated uncertaintanty from every pore and I had begun to be aware of my own stench.

The flight was finally called to board and I, following my own innate inabilty to be late at the risk of inconveniencing others, struck out on the longest walk that I can recall ever embarking on. 34... for some reason I remember the gate number as 34, though the number itself is unimportant. What was, as I am now realising to be the case, the divining quality of that particular gate was its location. It was miles away. It was sign-posted at every opportunity; arrows guided me around identical corners and past waiting rooms of inert, limbo-ed travellers. I followed, as if I was locked into a guiding beacon of my own, but as I followed I began to do that most dangerous of things in situations that are already making demands on your personal-comfort processors; I began to think. I began to question and I began to allow uncertainty, up until then only a faint odor that tainted my immiediate vicinity, to diffuse and occupy the vacuous expanse of my fatigued judgement.

The number for the gate was now visible and the cold, indifferent linoleum tiles had given way to generic yet personable airport carpeting. I called my mum. Not much of our conversation stays with me, except for the 9 words ''I don't know if I'm doing the right thing''. Now, I'm not a parent and I'm pretty sure I'm as far away from being one as I was when I was playing with action man figurines in my back garden, but I can appreciate that nothing would turn your stomach more than a son or daughter asking for counsel at a pivotal moment such as that. My mum dealt with it with such affection and poise that I wish I could recall her responses in full; they were the words of a parent who would never interfere, never make judgements or assumptions, but would support absolutely anything you chose to do, knowing full well it was the worst decision that they could have ever foreseen.

The plane was boarding and passengers were standing to shoulder their bags and belongings. I was pacing around in front of the gate, phone to my ear and stomach in my mouth. At times I would stray toward the steward behind the counter, looking up at him as if expecting him to give me his opinion on the inner turmoil that was broiling in front of him. Then, I would find myself sliding back down the corridor, away from the gate, the luggage and the six months away. I was sweating like I had been running on a treadmill, my attempts to cover my uncertainty with Gillette had been futile. I was melting under the pressure of my own indecision.

I'm staying. Fuck it.

I could sense a shift in the room; a barely perceptible energy rippled and dissipated through everything around me. I had changed the outcome of a pre-set arrangement. I was diverting my path to one that had not been consciously considered or perceived. I felt the realignment as I informed the steward that I would be needing to have my luggage taken of the plane. I felt the significance of my actions as I calmly tried to explain that an emergency had arisen that now meant I was unable to fly and I would reschedule my travelling plans. I could sense the gravity of the complete surrender to a gut feeling as he assured me that removing my belongings from the aircraft would only be a minor inconvenience and it was a good job I hadn't decided to stay once the plane was fully boarded.

But part of me still boarded that plane. That was the wave that shot through the airport at the moment I made my mind up; it was a tearing at the seams, a rendering of my life into parallels that would exist independently and in absolute ignorance of each other. I flew just as much as I didn't and I stayed just as much as I landed 11 hours later in Pudong airport. But, I will only ever be able to observe one parallel and speculate about the other, or others.