Every time I step into an airport, I feel it—that frisson of excitement, as if I’m on the brink of a grand adventure (even if I’m not going anywhere). Around me, people mill about, scanning departure boards and lugging suitcases. A cacophony of languages—English, Mandarin, French, Swedish, Vietnamese—blends into an indistinguishable hum. Overhead announcements punctuate the chatter with warnings about unattended luggage and imminent departures. It’s chaotic, sure, but to me, airports are like magical portals—thresholds between the familiar and the unknown.
I blame the postcards for this. And the books.
The Postcards That Started It All
Creak! Clang! Every afternoon after school, I’d lift the metal lid of the letterbox at the end of our driveway. Checking the post was one of my favourite responsibilities—a daily ritual laced with possibility.
Most days, it was bills and business mail for my parents. But sometimes, when my father was away overseas for work, there it was—a postcard for me! Glossy, exotic, and otherworldly, the image on the front making my imagination spin. On the back, in my father’s scrawling script, the message was usually brief and simple: “Love from Daddy”.
My father was a man of few words. Perhaps he thought there was nothing more to say, or perhaps he knew the image alone said enough. To me, those postcards were treasures—glimpses into faraway places I couldn’t even pronounce. I’d study them for hours: the shimmering canals of Amsterdam, the majestic palaces of London, the snow-capped peaks of Switzerland.
Flying to another country seemed as fantastical as a storybook tale. They were fragments of a world too big for me to fully understand, but small enough to fit in my hands. I’d trace the lines of unfamiliar stamps, marvel at exotic place names, and imagine life on the other side of those glossy pictures.
What is it like there? Was the food like the mysterious (and smelly) pickled fish my father kept in our fridge? What languages do they speak? How do they live? The lack of any message simply fueled my imagination to fill the gaps, painting vivid pictures of what I thought the world must be like—turning those postcards into vibrant snapshots of a world I desperately wanted to see for myself.
Libraries Stirred My Imagination
But it wasn’t just the postcards that stirred my wanderlust. With weekly visits to the local library, I devoured travel and adventure books as if they were sweets from the corner shop. True stories of explorers, adventurers, and far-flung places fed my imagination, keeping my travel dreams alive. I delighted in exotic words and place names that seemed to tingle on my tongue: caravanserai, tesserae, medina, souk, Tutankhamun, Patagonia, Morocco, the Silk Road, Madagascar, Mongolia…
Tales of courage and curiosity made the world feel boundless, even from the confines of my bedroom. I might not have been crossing the Sahara, but I could imagine it vividly—heatwaves shimmering, camels grumbling and spitting, and me heroically fending off a rogue sandstorm!
In bed at night, I lost myself in the adventures of Norah Linton from Mary Grant Bruces’ Billabong books. Though they read as dated and patronising now, at the time, I admired Norah’s resourcefulness and courage. I longed to “grow up wild” like her, roaming the vast Australian outback on horseback, free and fearless!
Standing on the Observation Deck
Back then, travel was something other people did. At least in our family. It wasn’t as accessible or commonplace as it is now. My father’s job often took him overseas, and I would tag along eagerly when we dropped him at the airport.
Those were the days of propeller-driven planes and outdoor observation decks. I’d clutch the railing, mesmerised as engines roared to life. The sound was deafening, the tang of aviation fuel sharp and unforgettable. I’d wave as my father’s plane taxied down the runway, imagining where it would take him and what he’d see.
“Do you think Daddy can see me waving?” I’d ask my mother, squinting at the little plane in the distance.
“Maybe,” she’d reply, with a smirk that I didn’t understand. “Wave harder, just in case.”
And so, I waved harder. And as his plane disappeared into the clouds, I promised myself: One day, I’ll be the one on that plane.
Dreams on Hold
But childhood dreams have a way of being shelved. Life takes over—studies, work, bills—and for a long time my travels were limited to imagination and backyard adventures.
Growing up in a middle-class suburb of Sydney, our annual beach holidays were the extent of my travels. They were simple pleasures: sand, surf, sunscreen, fish and chips (eaten from the paper wrapping), board games, and comic books. The iconic Australian beach holiday of the ’50s and ’60s. Later, camping trips with my son were the norm during his childhood, as we could afford little more.
Years passed. My first “overseas” trip wasn’t overseas at all—it was to Tasmania—that delightful island to the south of the Australian mainland. I was 19, and even that short flight thrilled me. My first flight! If felt like a door cracking open, however small, into a world I’d long imagined.
Then came youth orchestra tours—a month-long whirlwind across the USA, from San Francisco to Chicago, Iowa, Georgia, and Hawaii. Performances, cities, new people, new landscapes. A year later, while training to become a professional orchestral musician, a tour of Southeast Asia: Singapore, Kuala Lumpur, and Manila. Each stop broadened my world.
Possibilities. Adventure. Excitement.
Even then, those postcards lingered in my mind, whispering: Keep going. There’s more to see.
Full Circle: The Postcards Resurface
Years, later, I found myself a the airport with my 17-year-old son, setting off on a dream holiday—a promise I’d made to him before he finished school. We tried to play it cool, but our excitement was palpable. That trip was unforgettable, but it’s a story for another time.
Not long after, I returned to the airport alone, ready for my first overseas solo adventure. Bali! As I boarded the plane, my heart raced with the same thrill I’d felt as a child on the observation deck. Only now, I was the one disappearing into the clouds.
Since then, I’ve travelled across Europe, Asia, Scandinavia, North America, New Zealand, and Australia. And yet, every takeoff echoes those early memories—the hum of the engines, the scent of jet fuel, and my mother’s playful quip, “Wave harder, maybe he can see you.”
The Legacy of Wanderlust
It’s funny how a few simple postcards, a stack of books, and a wild imagination can shape a life of travel and adventure. Without knowing it, my father planted a seed of wanderlust that took decades to fully bloom. Those glossy images weren’t just souvenirs from his travels; to me, they were promises of possibility. And the books? They were invitations to dream bigger.
Now, as I sit in airports and gaze out aeroplane windows, I think of that little girl on the observation deck, dreaming of faraway places. And I think of my father, gone too soon, but always present in my thoughts.
So, here’s to him! And here’s to the postcards, books, and daydreams that sparked it all.
What About You?
Do airports still give you that thrill? Do childhood dreams still tug at your heart? Sometimes, the smallest things—a photo, a story, a postcard—shape the biggest parts of our lives. Where have your dreams taken you?
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