I have been taking planes ever since I remember myself. I used to love going on a plane as a child, but as I grew older and the flights were populating my life more and more densely, I became weary and tired of security checks, check-ins, overweight luggage, fastening seatbelts, connecting flights, eastern European airports and meals, insects on my salad, broken suitcases and prams, customer service, ear-eache, Russian bitches, glass cages for smokers, allergy to ventilation systems and the list goes on…
I finally came to the conclusion that flying is such an unnatural means of travel. You might be shifted to an all new dimension in a matter of hours. People may look and behave differently in the new dimension and even speak a new language. Suddenly you have to adjust to a new transport system, a new climate and new means of maintaining your cool. However, anyone having overdosed on flying has a certain grasp of the know-how involved, which is a freaky fact.
I may switch languages, mentalities and mannerism in an instant with such ease, I almost find it disturbing. It is almost like one, of a certain middle-class upbringing, has been trained all their lives to roam around Earth, or well Europe mostly, freely with a certain arrogance towards intermediate stop-overs. It is a kind of necessary arrogance towards a culture and a place there is absolutely no time to consider and thus leaves you with an ungrateful critical bitter taste of hostility.
There have been times in my life when I really didn’t know where home was… it simply did not exist, there was little need for it anyway and that’s a hell lot of fun, which like all fun, leaves you with a witty charm and an inner numbness. And then came a time when the need to take it all in became prominent, there always comes a time… when you have to decide to keep going or to decide to take the risk of stopping to think, uncertain about whether you can ever get back into the international airport-hopping scene. And I never did go back.
But every now and again a flight crops-up out of nowhere and an overwhelming sense of terror and awe takes over. And it is not so much the flight itself I worry about, but the airport and the person I become in there… A ruthless, arrogant, homeless, English-speaking, international bitch with a rucksack and a Burrows paperback who knows exactly where she has to be and when… One who in her normal life is pretty much a likable nervous wreck with an expression of eternal awe for life and the stars.
It’s crazy what airports do to you with their quiet discipline and urge. But I wish that one day I may take the time to stop and think inside an airport, not about the purpose of my flight, relocation or whatever may have led me there, but rather the flow of life and culture within this very strict but vibrant little place, leaving maybe a small scar on a chair near a boarding gate, symbolic that this airport didn’t scar me, I was the one who scarred it.