It’s about the journey not the destination .”.

I am writing this morning from the cosy and comfy living room of the air bnb that I am sharing with Haley and Matt.

Through the windows you can actually SEE the airport.  You can hear it a little - but their sound insulation must be really good because it is a dull hum rather than an overwhelming roar.

I am particularly pleased to be here because at various points in my journey yesterday I didn’t think I was going to get here. Although I would have ended up SOMEWHERE.

When I booked my flight I booked it from end to end -Canberra to Wellington. And I probably paid more attention to the price and the time it was leaving Canberra than to things like whether there was really time to get from one plane to the other in Sydney.

When I really concentrated closer to the time, I was concerned that there was an only an hour between flights. I mentioned it to the girl behind the desk when I checked in - but she reassured me that it would be OK.

So it was a DASH 8 plane - slightly longer commute but cheaper... Of course I was seated in the very back row.  Then, after a slightly delayed take off they announced that we were going to stay in the air for another 15 minutes due to delays in Sydney. All of that meant that as we taxied in it was 5:45 - which was also the time printed on my boarding pass for the next leg of my trip - Sydney to Wellington.

So - DASH 8. My hand luggage was too big and had to be checked. Every other time I have got off a flight like this the checked hand luggage has been waiting at the bottom of the steps. Not today. The luggage handlers are unloading it and all us dopes with the big bags have to wait around while they bring it over. “I’m really worried,” I say to the chap who appears to be in charge,”My international flight is supposed to be boarding right now.”

“Well, I can’t make this any faster,” he says, calmly. “And you have to get between terminals and through Immigration- so they probably won’t hold the flight that long.  But you can get on the first bus to the terminal.” Because today, of course, the plane is parked so far from the terminal that we need a bus.

I scramble onto the first bus (my new pal having reopened the doors just for me. A lovely man has been watching me with my rabbit in the headlights panic face and has stood up so that I have a seat. Of course I chat to him and the fellow next to me. “Wellington will still be there. There are lots of flights.”

“Yes,” I say, “But mine was getting in at 11:45pm already. There won’t be lots of other flights TODAY. “

Mentally I am preparing for a night in Sydney. And am grateful that our tour of Weta workshops is booked for the afternoon.

I bolt off the bus first to cries of good luck and wind my way at speed through the twists and turns and stairs to the actual gate. Gate 15 is what I need to transfer to the next terminal. Of course, we have come in two long corridors away from it. Off I go.

Where are those moving walkways when you actually need them?there appear to be none on my route.

I tell my tale of woe to the lady controlling the queue for the transfer bus. Luckily they are boarding one just as I arrive. “Where were you?” She says.

This strikes me as an odd question. “Where do you think I was?” I wonder. Do you think I just popped into the Domestic terminal for a spot of shopping on my way out.” But I reply, mildly, that I was on a plane from Canberra and she puts a stamp on my boarding pass that says priority- but seems to make no actual difference at all. They are much more concerned about the Schlubbs, who turn out to be another couple late for a flight.

I scramble to the bus - last one on again - and off we go