Airports are a strange limbo, where time is suspended in waiting between the hours of not-catching a plane, and catching a plane.

The food can be either brilliant or mediocre, and often I don’t have any currency if I’m just passing through. It’s a series of security checkpoints and passport checks and glances at boarding passes that make me feel like it’s the same day over and over again. The anonymity of the airport is nice – sitting amongst other passengers and watching the people, reading them, even.

Being called observant. All the little frowns and How did you know that?s. I like it.

Most airports feel very similar, whether they are big or small. Although, I have travelled enough to learn about great cafes in one, the location of my mother’s favourite box of chocolates in another and the best wonton soup in another.

They’re awful time-consuming places, with queues and lost luggage and little bits of paper to be signed, stamped and sealed. They’re sad places, with the longest good-byes and sighs that last until the jet-lag has worn off and you’ve finally unpacked.

But they’re good, too. People come home, reunite there.

So maybe they’re a little bit more than a halfway point.


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