Airports are a liminal space, a space 'between'. They are maybe the closest thing we have on Earth to Hell. And I don't mean that precisely for the suffering but for the lack of identity and agency that we experience - the tantalizing prospect that were will soon be set free and the fear that there is no exit. And every stranger around us seems to be in the same state of nowhereness. Airports zombify us. We are in a confusing, perpatetic state of not being where we intend to be. They're replete with distractions and attractions that are really just designed to waste our time, to make the waiting seem bearable.
I always feel a cloud of confusion descends on me when I'm in an airport. I experience a vague restlessness and nervousness - that I'm missing something. Certainly it's been getting worse as I age. Many things confuse me. I don't seem to be able to devote the same amount of focus or attention to details or to even complete reading slices of text. The consequences of leaving something behind are dire. I've lost many a paperback or charger with absolutely no hope of recovery. And there are also the security issues. Stripping off ones possessions and clothing, anticipating the likelihood that my titanium hip will set off an alarm, it's all too much for my poor little brain to keep in a diminished buffer.
Then there's the prospect of getting into a narrow, noisy metal tube and arriving into an unfamiliar environment, full of different acoustics, smells and, often, language. I often wonder what dogs think when they get on an elevator - the doors close. When they open, with no physical progress apparent, they are presented with a completely altered reality. Do they care? Do their other senses accommodate the change?
