New and Novel
How Tricia*, with her man in every port, taught me some lessons about life and has stuck with me for 20 years.
I've always been a little envious of people who are content with long-term routine and the familiar—like my husband. Having fewer transitions to navigate would be nice, but I’m not sure my brain works that way. Over time, however, I’m learning how to prioritise working with my brain rather than against it.
Perhaps it stems from my upbringing—new locations every 1–2 years, new schools, new houses, new friends. Change was my constant. But as I’ve grown older, I’ve craved a little more stability. Yet, paradoxically, as soon as I start feeling settled, I also start feeling restless. Welcome to my world.
It’s confusing, right? On one hand, I thrive on daily routines—they keep me grounded mentally. But when the bigger picture becomes too predictable, I crave something new.
When it was just me, that craving translated into new jobs or even moving to entirely new countries; that’s precisely what happened in my late twenties—after a five-year corporate stint, then climbing as high as possible in my airline job. I found myself boringly operating on autopilot—except for the odd emergency or medical situation mid-flight.
So, I packed my bags and took off on an indefinite trip to the UK via a holiday in the USA and Mexico—my final destination: my ancestral homeland, Scotland.
Being the non-conformist that I am, I didn’t go straight to London like everyone else I knew. Instead, I landed in Glasgow to connect with my extended family and give the city a shot.
After several months—and a snowstorm—I was ready for something new. I loved Scotland but hadn’t met many people, so I eventually headed to the clichéd second home of Aussie youth—London—to reconnect with old friends and make new ones.
This time, I took a different approach to work. I headed back into the corporate world and commuted like the rest of the soldier ants Monday through Friday. It was exciting—catching red double-deckers and the tube to London Bridge and having work lunch at Borough Market. By day, I felt like I was living on the set of Bridget Jones. On weekends, I’d be brunching in Soho, taking a mini break to Dublin, an overnight stay at my flatmate’s parent’s country house in Kent, ice-skating in South Kensington, or hanging out in my neighbourhood of Brixton.
My team made my job, as did the parties we were invited to by external suppliers. My supervisory role involved boosting morale in a temporary workforce, which I did… maybe too well. After a performance review where I was told I had “built morale too much,” I started planning my next move.
Right on cue, an airline reached out for an interview. It was my out.
I was immediately promoted to the premium cabins, thanks to my previous experience, and soon, I was flying to Asia every week. My British housemates—one of whom I had recruited at my previous corporate job and who still works there today, albeit in another country—probably loved having a barely there housemate to split the rent with. They definitely loved the duty-free booze I’d bring back from Bangkok every week.
My long-haul flights home would arrive at Heathrow in the morning, and I’d roll into my Stretham Hill second-floor flat with my trolley bag and red eyes while my flatmates were finishing breakfast. I’d pour myself a gin and tonic while they sipped their morning tea and headed out the door to work. It didn’t take long for them to realise this was my end-of-work week knock-off drinks. Then I’d shower off the plane and passenger germs, jump into my pyjamas, pop a Stilnox, and sleep the day away.
That was until I flew with Tricia*.
Tricia was a veteran of the skies. She’d been with the airline since she was 20. Now in her 60s, she floated back into the galley after patiently helping a passenger with their movie, and I couldn’t help but ask, “How are you still so patient and happy to serve after all these years?”
I wanted to hear more from Tricia over dinner during our layover in Hong Kong. But she was what we called a “slam-clicker”—someone who goes into their hotel room slams the door, clicks the lock, and doesn’t come out the whole layover until sign-on.
She had her plans: a cup of tea, some cross-stitch, and a call to her boyfriend.
“Oh, where’s your boyfriend?” I asked.
“I have one in Paris, one in Sydney, and one in London,” she cooed.
She was fabulous. But I couldn’t shake the thought: Was this a mirror into my future?
For weeks, I couldn’t stop thinking about Tricia. Every time I flew with a new crew—which was every week—I’d ask about their plans, their exit strategies. Then, one crew manager told me he never planned to leave. He called it “Peter Pan syndrome” and had no desire to grow up.
Twenty years on, I know he’s still there. He’s married now but has no kids. But travel is a massive part of his life, both during work and not.
And so I started asking myself:
Did I want a man in every port?
Did I want to be in my fabulous 60s, rocking a non-regulation fur coat like Tricia, while my colleagues stuck to uniform standards—only to spend my nights alone in a hotel room three to four nights a week?
Did I want to settle down?
Did being a part-time resident of one country and a traveller to others make settling down that much harder?
Was my clock ticking?
Did I have to grow up?
Could I survive on this minimum wage forever?
Then, as if the universe was listening, a friend offered me an interview for the same job—triple the salary, a quarter of the hours, in an exotic location, tax-free, with housing and bills covered, and more free time than I could imagine to figure out my next steps.
Three months later, in 2008, I was on a one-way flight to Saudi Arabia, thinking I was either incredibly smart or incredibly stupid—possibly never to be heard from again after ending up in some harem.
And that’s where I stayed until 2015. We moved, but not far—I just moved across the bridge to Bahrain until 2021—this time with a husband and two kids in tow.
I've often wondered what would have been had I not been such a seeker of the new and novel—if I had stayed in one job or one location. Chances are, I’d still be in the first job I ever had, working for a bank in Brisbane.
But if I had remained in that airline role, just like Tricia, how different would the sliding doors of my life look now?
Maybe I’d have more seniority, more job flexibility, and not have to prove myself like you do in every new role. Or maybe it just wouldn’t have been the life for me—new and novel with a splash of comfort zone.
Now, I understand myself a whole lot more. I aim to find ways to enjoy new and novel experiences without too much disruption to my family and myself.
I’d love to pack up and head overseas often, but that’s just not practical for this stage of life. Instead, I find ways to break routine—mini trips away, doing things a little differently, and keeping life interesting without completely upending it.
How about you? Are you a creature of habit, or do you exist to discover the new and novel? Or a bit of both?
*Name changed for privacy reasons