It has been a busy week with two trips to Rotorua. While I was studying at university I had a romantic idea of business trips. It was an opportunity to visit new places. From my rather parochial point of view someone else was paying me to be exposed to exotic, or at least different, places. The first couple of times it was probably close to my expectations: the exhilaration of going ‘somewhere else’. However, the novelty quickly disappeared. The reasons? They are an interruption to what I consider ‘normal life’; I like my family routine, sharing a meal, playing with my son, etc. Clearly spending time in a restaurant eating by oneself does not cut it.
Airports are funny places, with business travellers forming a distinct, alas subdued, group. A more formal attire, carrying black laptop bags, permanently checking emails, and with a focus on the destination. The trip is — or tends to be — a hassle. The engines of a Bombardier Q300 are humming in the background, the seat cushions are ‘flotation devices’ and row ten is the emergency exit. A strangely looking flight attendant whose hair and make up remind me of the cover of Björk’s Homogenic album. The fat guy sitting next to me is falling asleep and ‘spreading’ towards my seat. An spectacular sunset is framed by the airplane windows, but most people are nodding off or reading a magazine.
As with everything, there are exceptions. Some destinations include old friends; those who create that ‘instant click’. I mean, you haven’t seen each other for five years but after one minute is like we have never been apart. With others one come to the painful realisation that a process of unavoidable divergence has broken the connection: there is no click.
Taxis, restaurants, going through airport security, browsing an airport bookshop, looking for wireless connection, collecting receipts, etc. A duty more than a joy.