Haere Mai, Welcome

True to my word, here I am, publishing the story I entered into that writing competition this year.
I'd be interested in what you think of it, especially compared to the piece that won.

Haere Mai, Welcome

There’s a sign in Auckland airport. That sign reads ‘Haere mai’. Those words of welcome are seen everyday, read by a thousand eyes. Immigrants, tourists and travelers- the phrase welcomes each and every one.

The phrase welcomes home kiwis who have been traveling the corners of the world, travels which have confirmed that New Zealand is home.

People will pass the sign, their feet now firmly on New Zealand soil, and breathe a sigh of comfort and relief.

…welcomed into the country like a child into the warm embrace of their mother…

I stare at the screen of my outdated computer and almost laugh. I reread the e-mail my younger sister has sent me from New Zealand, a coy smile playing on my lips. She should really consider a career in sales, I think, and just because that stuff’s not true, that doesn’t mean it’s not persuasive. I sit back and fold my arms around my waist. A soft sigh escapes my pouting lips.

My younger sister has been trying to get me to come and visit her in New Zealand for what seems like a very long time.
You see, while I watch December snow fall outside my window, she is probably staring at the moon with our father, moist, summer air surrounding them both. I suddenly feel the need to go outside, to breathe the air. I step out onto my small porch and a wall of cold hits me. I take a breath, the Bordeaux air stinging my nostrils. I look out over my town, and scan the horizon. My mother once told me I always used to try and spot the Eiffel Tower from here, and, secretly, I’ve been continuing the hopeless game ever since. A jolt of disbelief jumps within me, I see something tiny and grey far off in the distance. I shake my head, snow falling around me; this air must be just a little too cold. I amuse myself by looking down on the streets below, at the beautiful women hiding in their warm, but very chic, winter coats, and the French men, still trying to swagger despite the nipping cold.

I look back to the horizon, back to the uneventful, pale blue line. A rather large, grey bird swoops down from the roof behind me, making me start. It then begins to fly loops above our building. Round and round it goes. I watch it, transfixed. I’m starting to get dizzy. The bird gives one mournful hoot, and then is gone. I stare into space briefly, listening.

People often describe a change within themselves by comparing it to a sudden snap; of one thing just ending to become something new. As weird as it seems, I was sure that my change was audible, that I heard the resent in me snap, crack, melt away.
I went back inside and faced the dirty screen once more. I hadn’t realised how cold I was. Images of beaches with warm sand and dark blue sea entered my mind.

Fleur, take a breath, grab your inhaler. Pascal and Dad will take care of the tickets. I want to be there for Christmas, so I’ll see you soon. Send my love to Dad. Can’t wait to see you.

Love, C.

I hit the send button and let out another sigh. This was it. I, eighteen-year-old, Coralie, am finally getting out of Europe, to go to a town whose name I can’t even pronounce.
I had never been more scared in my life.

The next week or so went by in a blur of excited emails, time spent staring at the horizon, and many, many, proud smiles from my mother, Pascal. Whenever I caught her gazing at me with that expression on her face, I’d raise a brow and ask, ‘Quel est ce, mère? What is it, Mum?
Each time she would look at me, right into my eyes, and give me some variation of, ‘Nothing, can’t one just smile anymore?’

Before I knew it I was standing in the airport, people busting past in all directions. French crackled through the speaker system, its furious speed coupled with a thick Parisian accent making even me, a born-and-bred French girl, listen more closely. Tourists took out their copies of Learn French, Fast!, cocked their heads to one side, did whatever they could to try and discern what on Earth was being said. I passed an elderly couple, trying to ask where the bus station was. Their French was garbled and rough, but as they were about to give up, the man they were asking raised one hand to stall them. I heard him say, in perfect English:

‘Walk out the main entrance and take a left. You will see a lot of buses, that may help.’ And with that he walked away. Always with the dramatics.

Mum grabbed me at the gate. She wrapped me in a hug. After a moment, she held me at arms length and reached up to brush some of my hair aside. One of those smiles played on her lips again...

‘It feels much better, doesn’t it?’

I pulled her towards me, our tears mixing as we kissed each other on both cheeks.

I walked through the gate and promised myself I wouldn’t look back.

I turned around at the first corner. My mother is still smiling. I raise my hand, take a breath of warm, conditioned air, and start walking.

*

It’s a strange feeling waking up to the same light, the same image, sitting in an uncomfortable seat beside a women you’ve never seen before. That was long-haul flights for you.

It’s also strange to wake up with the same thought you drifted off to still in your mind.

It feels better, doesn’t it?

Mum knew, somehow, that the heavy, rock-hard resentment inside me had gone. A warm feeling filled me. I rested my head on the plane window, cloud stretched above and below us. Then, slowly, an anxious chill began to permeate the warmth. I hadn’t seen my sister of father in three years. I was hurtling through the air towards this strange land; there was no going back now. What had I got myself into?

*

I stare at my phone in disbelief. Their car has broken down. I have to get to their beach-side town by myself. I get out my road map and try to pronounce the town name one more time. My accent-stained lips do not seem to want to say it. Whangaparaoa.

‘Fon-ger-pear-ro-er.’ I mumble, in a fashion I think must be amusing enough to be up to standard with Kiwi humor.

As I stand, bewildered, in the Auckland Airport I notice a blatantly German women looking lost and confused. She draws a breath and goes up to a couple waiting by the arrivals. The pair smile encouragingly and then bring out a map. The women hands over a pen and together, I see them work out the problem she has. As they hand over the map and wish her well, she thanks them with and expression of mild surprise and undisguised relief. I love France deeply, but I had to admit, that that never would have happened there. We just love our condescending humor too much.

The automatic doors swoosh open, and dry, warm air greets me. I marvel at the fact that, even in their biggest city, the clean air still carries traces of the sea.

Okay, taxi stand, where are you?

Spotting it, I begin to trundle my bag towards it. Walking across the sun drenched foot path, a broad but kind voice calls me.
A young man jogs up to me, holding a small booklet.

‘Hey…uh, New Zealand’s choice, who wouldn’t want to stay, eh? But, maybe you’d like to go home and get you jandals or something…’ The man stops, his features echoing my own nervous, unsure expression.

‘Your passport?’ He proclaims, louder and slower, as if this is likely to assist the situation.
My heart is beating so hard and fast, my limbs feel like they’re hollow.

‘Thank you,’ I say, ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you.’ I feel as though I might cry.

‘No probs, oi.’ He smiles widely then turns away.’ One thing is nagging me, though.

‘‘Excuse me, but…‘jan-daals’’?’ I call after him.

He laughs mutely and kicks out his feet.
I let out a soft ‘oh’ as he turns once more and walks away.

I collapse into the back of the taxi, lean my head back and try to pull myself together.
Jet lag pulses through me, a wave of fatigue close behind.

‘Alright, love?’ A voice that is somehow warm asks. I had almost forgotten where I was. ‘Oh…yes, thank you.’ He is a kind-faced Indian man, but despite appearances, I have no doubt that he is a real New Zealander. The man begins to negotiate the airport car park. My tired, clumsy fingers open the road map. The mazes of lines and minuscule writing blur before my sleep encrusted eyes. As he exits on to the main road, he says,

‘Where to, mam?’ I am staring at the map, it still was refusing to make sense, but I can hear the smile in his voice.

‘Well…’ I begin. ‘I need to get to…to,’ I did not feel like embarrassing myself. I wait for some snide words from the driver, perhaps a snigger.

‘Jet lag’s a bugger, ain’t it?’ He looks at me, I feel safe, the fear inside me subsides a little. ‘Just show me the map, love.’ At the red light he nods, says we’ll be there in an hour if the traffic’s good. I manage to mumble the street address before the comfort he offered makes me drift off into a sleep, despite the uncomfortable headrest and sound of city life.

I open my eyes and glistening blue sea and white sails present themselves to me. It takes me a moment to realise that we are not, in fact flying.

‘The ‘Arbour Bridge, no?’ I say sleepily.

‘That’s right, hun.’ But he didn’t get far, because I had just seen something that had woken me like splash of icy water.

‘Is that- is that a volcano?’ I say a bit too loudly.

‘Indeed it is-’

‘What! It’s not active, though, surely…’

‘Oh, yes, ol’ Rangi is just dormant. A lot of the others are just dormant, too-’

‘There’s more?!’

‘Sorry to break it to you,’ the cabby begins, cautious because of my panic, ‘but the city’s built on them.’

‘Built…built on…’ I start, but my body craves sleep. ‘You people are crazy.’ I say as darkness envelopes me.

But before I am completely emerged in sleep, I hear:

‘Fact of life, that is, dear,’

I awake to the sight of New Zealand, images of suburbia meets beach culture go past outside the dusty window of the cab. It’s early afternoon, the sky nothing but relentless blue, everything seems so vibrant…so alive. We stop at the traffic lights, and, to my greatest, jet-lagged, surprise, the guy the next car over says,

‘G’day, a beauty, isn’t it?’

‘Oh, you betcha, mate.’ The taxi driver replies, like this good natured chat is the most normal thing in the world. A thought slides through my mind as we accelerate: maybe it is. Maybe all this is the most spectacular, gorgeous normal. We drive next to houses that practically drip into the ocean. The water is cobalt velvet, immersed in sparkling diamonds. Before I can stutter ‘My word, where in a postcard’, the car has stopped outside a small white house set back from the road. The grass is short, dry. There’s a pole with a piece of rope hanging from it, a tennis ball hangs at the end of the rope. Another question. Another answer I’m looking forward to.

I pay the man and soon he is driving away. I stand, staring at the house. The hinges of the front door squeak. My little sister runs from the house and flings herself around me. My jet lag is gone for the moment. My father follows in her wake, a shy grin on his tanned face. He opens his arms, I step over the threshold, into home.

‘Papa…I whisper into his chest. He holds me tighter.

‘Haere mai, welcome.’