Gate B22

Between Two Flights

Sometimes the longest journey isn't the one across the Atlantic.

Airports are fascinating places.

Thousands of people pass through them every hour, each carrying a different story. Some are rushing to catch a connecting flight. Others are saying goodbye to someone they love. Some are exhausted, while others are excited about the adventure ahead.

Most of them will never speak to each other.

And yet, sometimes a simple layover becomes the beginning of an unexpected story.

As I'm writing this, I'm one of the people with time to kill.

I'm sitting at Toronto Pearson International Airport, waiting nearly six hours for my flight back to Amsterdam after spending four unforgettable weeks in Halifax, Nova Scotia.

Like almost everyone around me, I reach for my phone.

I scroll. I check messages. I watch the battery percentage slowly slip away.

So I get up and start wandering through the terminal in search of something that has become almost as essential as food or water, a working power outlet.

Eventually I find one near a fast-food restaurant.

The outlet is worn out. My charger barely stays in place, hanging loosely from the socket. It looks like it's charging, but after almost an hour the battery has hardly moved.

I give up. Time to find something to eat instead.

Through the enormous windows I watch the choreography unfolding on the platform outside. Luggage carts race in every direction. Electric service vehicles weave around parked aircrafts. Ground crews wave signals at each other with practiced precision. From where I'm sitting it looks like complete chaos.

And yet somehow...

...every suitcase ends up on the right airplane.

The loudspeakers interrupt my thoughts.

First in English. Then exactly the same announcement in French. Canada reminds you every few minutes where you are. The smell of French fries and coffee hangs in the air as I return to my seat at gate B22. I wander through the tax free shops. I'm almost tempted to buy a luxury watch. But is misses the wow factor. Three hours remaining.

Not long enough to leave the airport.

Far too long to simply stare at the departure boards. So I open my laptop.

I am about to published my first book. Since then, something has changed inside me. I no longer write because I have to. I never did. I write because I kind of like it. My mother reminded me that I used to write travelstories when we traveled Europe with our selfbuild campervan. I also could write pretty entertaining letters when I traveled to Israël. That was before the internet. That was the time you had to call collect. That was pretty expensive so to write extensive letters was imperitive.

During my four weeks in Halifax I decided to document my journey while I was actually living it, not afterwards, when memories become polished and convenient, but in real time.

Maybe that's the beauty of it. Life doesn't happen in neat chapters.

It happens in interrupted conversations, delayed flights, unexpected encounters, and random thoughts that appear while you're waiting for your next boarding call.

So bear with me if this story wanders every now and then.

I suppose that's exactly what life does.

Before becoming a writer, I spent more than three decades building a career.

It wasn't a straight road. After several failed attempts at finishing an education, I eventually found work in the Dutch prison system. For eight years I worked with inmates. It was intense. Sometimes confronting.

The pay was good, especially with the irregular shifts, but I slowly discovered something that many people eventually learn:

A decent salary and a meaningful life aren't necessarily the same thing.

So I reinvented myself. I went back to school and became a social benefits advisor. Another completely different profession. And before I knew it, twenty-two years had gone by.

Funny how that happens. One day you're learning a new job. The next, you're wondering where two decades disappeared. That question kept returning.

Do I really want to keep doing this until retirement?

For once, the answer came without hesitation.

"No"

The difficult part wasn't deciding what I wanted to leave behind.

The difficult part was discovering what I wanted to move toward.

So I decided to adopt a growth mindset.

A voice suddenly echoes through the terminal.

"Attention please..."

Another gate change.

Of course.

When I landed from Halifax, the departure boards told me my flight to Amsterdam would leave from Gate B22.

After my phone charging experience and diner I discovered that it had changed to B17. So I sat there I had installed myself at B17. Shoes off. Decided to start writing. Make usefull time.

Now...all of a sudden.... The beautiful Asian flight attendants started to announce a gate change. Ladies and gentlemen. There is about to be a gate change. The flight with service to Amsterdam with flight number TS376 will board from gate B22. She is the kind of Flight attendant that immediately makes people feel comfortable.

I can't help laughing. It was about to happen.

I grab my laptop, leave my shoes where they are,

Laptop in one hand. I walk across the carpet in my socks toward the gate agent.

I jokingsly say:

"You've got to be kidding me..."

She instantly understands.

Her face turns into a perfectly exaggerated expression of guilt.

"Yeah... I know... I'm soooo sorryyyy." :)

We both laugh. I give her a smooth fist bump. She laughs even harder.

Moments like these last maybe fifteen seconds.

Yet somehow they stay with you much longer.

Airport staff deal with thousands of frustrated passengers every day.

If I can leave someone smiling instead of complaining...

...that's a pretty good investment.

I put my shoes back on, pack my laptop once again, and make the short walk back to Gate B22.

The beautiful Asian lady has also changed her position to B22. As I pass her one more time, I deliberately exaggerate my disappointment, shaking my head dramatically. She bursts out laughing again. "Crazy traveler she must have thought".

Mission accomplished.

Change of scene. I settle into a seat beside an elderly couple.

They're cheerful despite looking exhausted.

"We came all the way from Gate C68," the gentleman says with a smile. He shows his boardingpass like he almost wants to prove he won the marathon.

I laugh. "I think you win." Thats a freaking long walk.

They're flying to Amsterdam too. From there they'll board a cruise through the Norwegian fjords.

Later that evening, somewhere over the Atlantic, the flight attendant congratulates a couple celebrating their 50th anniversary.

It's them. The entire cabin applauds.

You can spend hours surrounded by thousands of people without exchanging a single word. Or you can share ten minutes with complete strangers and somehow remember them for years.

Where was I? Right. Life.

For months I'd been asking myself the same question.

What comes next? Leaving something behind is easy.

Walking toward something you can't yet see... That's the difficult part.

Around that time I learned to know my girlfriend. She was active in personal development. I was curious. It sounded interesting. I listened, I read a few articles. Watched a couple of online lessons. Started watching Youtube video's from Roy Martina and Joe Dispenza. More out of curiosity than conviction. But slowly something began to shift.

Not because I suddenly believed life was controlled by mysterious forces.

Quite the opposite.

I discovered that clarity changes behavior.

When you become crystal clear about what you really want, your life begin to change almost automatically.

You notice opportunities that used to pass you by.

You start saying yes to different things.

And eventually... your life begins moving in a different direction.

Looking back now, I realize I'd already experienced that once before.

Years earlier I'd made another radical decision.

I wanted less. Not more. Less debt. Less clutter. Less dependence.

I bought a small piece of privatized forestland.

I got rid of most of my possessions. I cut my monthly expenses almost in half.

People thought I was simplifying my life.

In reality... I was buying freedom.

A young woman sits down a few seats away from me.

She unwraps a sandwich.

Within seconds an aroma drifts through the waiting area.

Not every smell deserves to be described in detail.

Let's just say... I sincerely hope she finishes lunch quickly.

I zip up my jacket. This part of the terminal is noticeably colder.

The loudspeakers fall silent for a while.

Outside, another wide-body aircraft slowly pushes back from the gate.

Ground crew scatter like ants around it. Watching airports is strangely addictive. Everyone seems to know exactly where they're supposed to be. Even if, from a distance, it looks like complete chaos. Maybe life is like that too.

When you're standing in the middle of it, nothing seems to make sense. Only later, looking back, do you begin to recognize the pattern.

By now there's about an hour left before boarding begins.

I'm getting tired. Not sleepy. Just mentally quiet. Exactly the kind of quiet I rarely allow myself back home. I could open my book. Watch a movie. Scroll endlessly through my phone like almost everyone around me.

Instead...

I keep writing.

Paulo Coelho once said that,

writing is an act of courage.

I've always admired him, not because he has all the answers, but because he's willing to expose the questions.

That's much harder.

This laptop, balanced awkwardly on my knees in the middle of Toronto Pearson Airport, has become part of a dream I didn't even know I was building.

I just didn't realize it yet.

Boarding begins almost unnoticed.

One by one, passengers gather their backpacks, neck pillows and duty-free bags. The quiet waiting area suddenly comes alive.

I take one last look through the terminal windows.

Outside, another aircraft is being pushed away from the gate while mine patiently waits for us.

It's funny. We spend so much of our lives waiting.

Waiting for the right moment. The right job. The right relationship. The right amount of money. The right opportunity. As if life starts somewhere in the future. Maybe that's why I enjoy airports so much. Nobody questions waiting here. It's simply part of the journey.

A few minutes later I'm walking down the jet bridge. The familiar smell of an airplane greets me. Recycled air. Coffee. Jet fuel lingering somewhere in the background. The friendly faces of the flightattendants.

For frequent travelers it's strangely comforting. My seat is somewhere in the middle of the cabin. K023 On my flight to Canada I sat next to a father and his young son.

This time it's a mother and her daughter.

"Hi," she says with a warm smile.

"I'm Patricia." In a plane to Amsterdam you might expect a Dutch person. I greet her in Dutch. Her little girl hides behind her arm. Turnes out she's not Dutch. She is of Dutch descent. I have the window seat. That means both of them have to get out. After I squeez myself into position I introduce myself further. She seems to be openminded.

"And this is Madelyn." Patricia says,

Madelyn is six years old. "Thats one hand and one fingre" I say.

She's wonderfully shy in the way only children can be.

They're visiting family in the Netherlands, Amsterdam, Rotterdam and a small town called Groenlo.

Within minutes the cabin doors close. Phones disappear into pockets. Seat belts click. Savety procedures appear on the screen in the headrest. The engines slowly come alive beneath us. The plane starts to shake gently because of the hookup of the airplane -tug.

There's something magical about the moment just before takeoff.

Hundreds of people. Hundreds of completely different lives. Yet for the next seven hours we're all sharing exactly the same journey.

Once we're airborne I close my eyes for a while. Not to sleep. Just to listen. The steady drone of the engines has always had a calming effect on me. It's impossible to answer emails. Impossible to mow the lawn. Impossible to solve tomorrow's problems. For a few hours...

Life gives you permission to simply exist.

Then my nose detects something. A smell. A rather unfortunate one. Sour. Creamy. Warm. For a brief moment I'm convinced somebody has already made use of the airsickness bag. I glance at Patricia. "Do you smell that?" She laughs.

"The kids get their meals first." She explains.

A flight attendant places a steaming tray of pasta in front of Madelyn. Mystery solved. Meanwhile leaving me nauseous! The airline proudly calls it a complimentary meal. I've always find that expression amusing. Years ago, meals on long-haul flights were simply part of the ticket. Now they're presented almost like a generous gift from the airline. Nothing impressive if you ask me.

Marketing is everywhere.

While Madelyn happily attacks her pasta, my thoughts drift back several years. After leaving my previous job I eventually found another position as a social advisor. On paper it seemed like a fresh start. In reality... I had simply changed desks. The people were the same and so were their problems.

It didn't take long before I realized I had walked back into the same world I'd been trying to leave. That wasn't failure. It was clarity. Sometimes the only purpose of taking a road... ...is discovering it isn't yours. So I kept searching.

Not desperately. Curiously.

Around that same time I became fascinated by something entirely different.

Not a specific profession. Not even a company. A different way of thinking about income. Until then I'd always done what almost everyone does.

Exchange hours...for money. Work a month. Receive one paycheck. Repeat.

Nothing wrong with that. But one question kept bothering me.

What happens if one day I stop exchanging my time?

Does the income stop too? For most people...the answer is yes.

I began reading books about entrepreneurship. Listening to podcasts during long drives. Attending seminars. Studying business models I'd barely heard of before. Not because I wanted to become rich.

Freedom interested me far more than wealth.

Money itself has never been my biggest dream.

Freedom has. The freedom to decide when and where I wake up.

The freedom to work from wherever I happen to be. The freedom to say yes...or no! without asking permission. That realization quietly changed everything.

Madelyn has finished dinner.

The mysterious pasta smell has finally disappeared.

It has now been replaced by something else. Candy. She sits there completely content, carefully enjoying every piece as though she has all the time in the world. Children are remarkably good at living in the present.

Adults... not so much.

I smile and return to my laptop. Outside the window there's nothing to see except darkness stretching endlessly across the Atlantic Ocean.

Ten thousand meters below us lies an ocean separating two continents. Somewhere halfway across that darkness... I realize I'm no longer writing about a vacation. I'm writing about decisions. About the strange chain of events that begins whenever you dare to move in a different direction. Not because you know exactly where you'll end up. But because staying where you are no longer feels right.

I sometimes get questions whether I'm afraid of making big changes. The honest answer? Of course I am. Everyone is.

Courage isn't the absence of fear. It's deciding that your future deserves a chance anyway.

Looking back now, I can clearly see the pattern. Every meaningful change in my life started the same way. First came curiosity. Curiosity led me to learn. Learning changed the way I looked at the world.

That new perspective made different actions feel almost inevitable. Those actions created experiences. The experiences built confidence. And confidence made the next step a little easier. Before long... the impossible slowly became familiar. Not because life suddenly became easier. But because I had changed.

Somewhere over the Atlantic, while most passengers are sleeping, I find myself wide awake. The cabin lights have been dimmed. Only the occasional reading lamp punctures the darkness. Outside the window there's absolutely nothing to see. No cities. No roads. No horizon. Just blackness. It feels as if the airplane has temporarily escaped the world. It's remarkable how silence has a way of inviting old memories back.

Years ago, I believed success looked a certain way. A secure job. A predictable salary. Working hard. Retiring someday. It was the script almost everyone around me was following. I never questioned it. Nobody does. Until one day... I did. Not because someone convinced me. Because I couldn't convince myself anymore. There had to be another way to design a life. Not an easier one. Just one with more intention.

One decision led to another. I reduced my expenses. I learned to appreciate owning less. Ironically, the fewer possessions I had, the richer I began to feel. Less maintenance. Less stress. Less noise. More room to think. More room to create. More room to breathe. People often assume freedom is something you buy. In my experience...

freedom begins with to stop wanting so much.

Later I became interested in businesses that weren't tied to a specific location.

The idea fascinated me. Imagine building something that doesn't stop the moment you go on vacation. Not because you're trying to avoid work. But because you've built something capable of creating value even while you're somewhere else. That idea stayed with me. Quietly. Patiently.

Eventually it became part of a much bigger dream. I didn't want to retire early. I wanted to stop needing permission to live my life. There's a difference. A very big difference.

The seatbelt sign briefly illuminates. A pocket of turbulence. The aircraft gently shudders. Nobody seems concerned. We've all surrendered control to two pilots we've never met. Funny, isn't it? Most people feel perfectly comfortable trusting complete strangers with their lives at thirty thousand feet... Yet hesitate to trust themselves with changing careers. Or others.

I smile at the thought. Patricia is asleep. Madelyn has somehow managed to curl herself into seemingly impossible sleeping positions only children seem capable of. I wish I was that flexible. I need to pick up my Yoga again. The cabin has become wonderfully quiet. I keep writing.

A few years earlier I'd attended several entrepreneurship seminars. The speakers talked about creating assets instead of merely earning wages. At first I thought they were talking about money. Later I realized they were talking about time. Money can always be earned again. Time cannot.

That distinction changed everything for me. Since then I've started measuring opportunities differently. Not by asking,

"How much does this pay?"

But instead,

"Will this give me more freedom tomorrow than it does today?"

Surprisingly... those two questions rarely lead to the same answer.

Eventually I joined a company focused on preventive health. What attracted me wasn't the products alone. It was the mission. Helping people understand their health before they become patients. Education instead of persuasion. Curiosity instead of pressure. That suited me perfectly.

I've never believed in persuasive selling. I enjoy conversations. I enjoy learning. And I enjoy watching people arrive at their own conclusions. That feels much more honest.

Of course...

not everyone says yes. In fact... most people don't.

And that's perfectly fine. One of the first lessons I learned was not to measure success by the number of people who agreed with me. Success was simply having the courage to keep showing up. Again. And again. And again. Life has a funny way of rewarding consistency long before it rewards talent.

At some point I close the laptop. Not because I'm finished writing. Because I'm finished thinking. Sometimes those are two very different things. The engines continue their endless hum. Someone coughs a few rows behind me. A baby cries briefly before falling asleep again. The flight attendants quietly move through the aisle collecting empty cups. Thousands of tiny moments. None of them remarkable on their own.

Together...

they become a journey. And maybe that's true of life as well. No single decision transformed mine overnight. It was hundreds of small choices. Repeated. Patiently. Quietly. Until one day I looked around... and realized I was living a completely different life.

On my flight to Canada a few weeks earlier, I'd been sitting next to a father and his young son. Like so many conversations between strangers, it started with something insignificant. Where are you from? Business or vacation? Is Halifax your final destination? Nothing extraordinary.

At least... that's what it seemed at the time. As the hours passed, we talked about life. Travel. At some point he asked what I did for a living.

"I do a little bit of everything."

Which, strangely enough, was the most honest answer I could give. Eventually the conversation turned toward something I'm deeply passionate about. Not selling products. Not building a business. Helping people understand that health is something you build long before you lose it. The further we talked, the more curious he became.

Questions replaced small talk. One question became five. Five became twenty. I told him it would be better that we made an online Zoom appointment to learn more about what I do. By the time we're about to land in Toronto, we'd exchanged phone numbers.

We shook hands somewhere around thirty thousand feet above the Atlantic. Then we each disappeared onto our own destination.

A week later I sent him a message. No reply. That happens. As an owner of two farms he must be busy. Life has a habit of making everyone forget about their inbox. So I simply left it there. No pressure. No chasing.

Another week passed. This time I sent him a short reminder with a specific date.

"Would next Thursday work for you?"

Not too long after... "Yes, that works."

Funny how often clarity succeeds where persistence doesn't.

We scheduled a Zoom call. Because I happened to be in Canada, and my mentor lives in Sweden, coördinating a Zoom in three different time zones turned into a small project of its own.

Eventually everything lined up. Well... almost everything. At the last minute my mentor couldn't make it. Normally I would have postponed the meeting. A few years ago I certainly would have. This time I didn't. I already knew enough. The conversation we'd had on the airplane had done most of the work. All I had to do now...was continue it.

People often imagine these conversations as some sort of sales presentation. They couldn't be more wrong. I don't enjoy selling. I don't want to. What I like is explaining. Listening. Answering questions. Helping people make informed decisions. Whether someone says yes or no isn't entirely up to me. But whether I show up prepared... Follow the system. That is. So that's exactly what I did.

By the time we finished talking, he looked at me and smiled. "So... how do I get started?" No pressure. No persuasion. Just a decision. Then he surprised me. "What about my wife?" I explained that every person has their own health journey. Their own starting point. Their own subscription. He nodded.

"Then let's register both of us."

A few moments later he asked another question.

"What about our children?"

I laughed. "One step at a time."

At that exact moment something struck me.

I wasn't sitting behind a desk. I wasn't in an office. We weren't even in the same timezone. I was at my brothers house while on vacation in Halifax Nova Scotia, using my laptop to help someone I'd met on 31.000 foot altitude.

The irony made me smile. Years earlier I'd imagined a life that wasn't tied to one building. One employer. One location.

Now...

without even realizing it... I was living it. That's the funny thing about dreams. When you're chasing them, they always seem to stay just beyond the horizon. That ordinary Tuesday sitting at my brothers house. I suddenly notice something.

I'm no longer chasing the life I imagined.

I'm already living it.

People sometimes ask me whether I believe in luck. I do not. But I do believe in persistance. Being at the right time at the right place and recognize an opportunity. I call it inspired action. An habit of simply starting without knowing the outcome. Just start.

Had I never intensionaly started the conversation on that airplane... Nothing would have happened.

Had I never followed up... Nothing would have happened.

Had I been too afraid to host the Zoom call alone... Nothing would have happened.

Looking back, none of those moments felt particularly important. Together... they changed everything.

That, I've come to believe, is how life usually works. Not through dramatic breakthroughs. Through countless ordinary moments that quietly accumulate until one day they become your new reality. You rarely recognize them while they're happening. Only afterwards. When you connect the dots.

I close my laptop. Outside the train window, the Dutch countryside slides quietly past. Green fields. Small villages. Cyclists. Home. For the first time since leaving Halifax... I finally feel that the journey is over. Or perhaps... that another one has just begun. It's never over. A new cycle begins.

The train slowly rolls north through the Dutch countryside. The strange metalic sound of the wheels on the tracks. The landscape feels strangely familiar after four weeks in Canada. The forests are smaller. The roads narrower. The sky somehow lower. Home has a different rhythm. I don't dislike it. I simply notice it. Travel has a curious way of changing your perspective. You leave hoping to discover a new place.

Instead...

you return seeing your own place with different eyes. My car is waiting exactly where I left it weeks ago. One backpack. One laptop. A head full of memories. As I load my bags into the trunk, I realize something. This trip wasn't defined by whale watching at Brier. Or Halifax. Or the kilometers I drove through Nova Scotia. Not even by the six-hour layover that gave birth to this story. Those were simply the settings. The real journey happened somewhere else. Quietly. Inside me.

Looking back, I can trace my life through a series of ordinary decisions. Leaving one career. Starting another. Building a small cabin in the woods. Learning to live with less. Getting on airplanes. Talking to strangers. Writing stories instead or keeping them to myself. None of those decisions felt life-changing when I made them. Only years later do they reveal themselves as turning points. Maybe that's how life always works. We search for defining moments.

In reality...

our lives are shaped by ordinary Tuesdays. A conversation at thirty thousand feet. A delayed flight. A handshake. A notebook. A sentence written while waiting for a boarding call.

People sometimes ask me what the secret is to changing your life.

I don't think there is one. At least not the kind people hope for. No magic formula. No overnight transformation. Just curiosity. The willingness to begin before you feel ready. And the courage to keep moving when the destination isn't entirely clear. I've discovered that clarity rarely comes first.

Movement does.

Every meaningful chapter of my life started with one simple decision. Not because I knew where it would lead...but because standing still was no longer an option.

As I write these final words, my journey is officially over. Or perhaps that's the wrong way of looking at it. Airports have taught me something. Every arrival hall is also someone else's departure gate. Every ending quietly becomes another beginning. Maybe that's why I've always loved them. They're places where thousands of stories briefly cross paths before continuing in completely different directions. For a few moments, complete strangers share the same space. Sometimes they exchange nothing more than a polite smile. Sometimes... they unknowingly become part of each other's story.

I don't know where my next journey will take me. I don't know who I'll meet. I don't know who will join me. Or what conversation might quietly change the direction of my life once again. It might be you.

But I do know this. I'll keep saying yes to curiosity. I'll keep writing.

I'll keep talking to strangers. Because every once in a while... one of those conversations becomes far more valuable than you could ever have planned. And perhaps that's the greatest lesson this journey gave me.

Life rarely changes all at once.

It changes one conversation... one decision... one unexpected encounter at a time. So if you ever find yourself with six hours to kill at an airport... Don't be in such a hurry to kill the time. You never know what kind of story might be waiting at the next gate.

Richard Göbel

"Between Two Flights" ✈️