They mix, separate, unite and connect – so many feelings mingle behind those concrete walls. Every airport is similar to the Tower of Babel: hundreds of people talk gibberish and dig their way to the gates-tunnels, while carrying jumbo bags with duty-free trophies.
Those massive buildings reflect a country’s wealth, popularity, capacity and strategy. Like on a palm of a hand you can see the doomed and the glorious scrambled together: a Prada cougar rushes along with a barefoot Namibian, who tidily wrapped up the whole life into a single-use plastic bag. Both would take a glimpse of each other and retrace their whole lives.
Big iron birds take off and land, spitting out kerosene fumes and proudly boasting off their national characteristics.
Minutes before boarding are spent in meditation. Each is praying for what bothers the most. A father with rubber senseless hands is squeezing a couple of toys – those are birthday presents to his offspring – he is finally returning back after 6-months hard work in the land, where even trees are foreign; a boy thrown around the world by a corporate machine, striving to skyrocket his career. Is it what matters? – He would figure it our later. Meanwhile, he is rambling through important papers; tie sits perfectly on his neck; a branded suit, a Moleskine. A bunch of “golden girls” is on the way back from shopping in Milan. Ripped off by marketing sharks, but proud: “they’ve got a deal”. A couple of lovebirds craving to dig their feet into white sands of Barbados and watch cotton clouds pass by. A family occupied a corner of the waiting compartment. Clutched together like birds nestling under roof tiles, they are ready to run away from pain, doubts and frustration. They would shove civil engineering diplomas between dusty books and set a table, arguing what detergent is better to scrub off the stains at the restaurant they now work for.
Some are scared, some are happy. Some – confused and tired.
Airports are city gates. They squeeze together countries’ gastronomic delights, ridiculously expensive souvenirs, scents, shapes and tastes of what is hidden behind the revolving doors.
One would look through a nicely polished window, take a poetic look at the local panorama – it would not show the whole city. You would have to imagine what’s further, like stealing a glimpse of a Persian ankle. After that comes a thought: “Would it be just a transit or my next destination?”