and yet
I feel like there used to be a time when airports were magical, or at least interesting, or at least not injurious to your soul. I remember excited conversations in atmospheric bars, watching people cry and wave and run and stumble and yell and cry again and smile and turn back to get a forgotten thing and…
And now they’re just cold unpleasant overpriced malls.
And yet…
I do still love an airport. I’m here right now in Sydney, three hours early for my plane, because of course I am, and I’m smugly pleased with myself to have found a small out of the way bar at gate 32 which is not overrun like the other bar, the main bar in the main hall. There’s an Asian person of indiscriminate nationality and gender with a glass of whiskey and me, and we have a magnificent window looking out onto the gates and planes.
and then they tell me they’re closing now. Sigh. Over to the main bar I go with my bag of deflated smug.
