Has a kiosk with 3 free internet stations.
Too good to be true.
I’m in between planes, four hours to kill, and get a chance to look at my email.
This takes two seconds…I have nearly lost all my correspondents. Ach.
“So… write about what a joy it is to be in an airport, where squadrons of kimono’d flight attendants pull their flight bags along, sporting traditional Japanese (or is it Burmese?) hairdos… and how nauseated you get testing twelve different bottles of unaffordable perfume” says the Everyone Wants To Know What’s In My Head voice.
“But who would read that?” asks the reasonable editor.
“Uh… people who fly? My two stalkers? No, really , people can recognize the nausea that is really about the stress of all that noise–overhead loudspeakers booming in Chinese, followed by bell tones, then an Aussie accent welcoming you to Australia, then a hurry up message about a flight Now Departing which you are convinced is directed at you, even if they’re repeating : Mr. Rashid Cho Alvarez”.
Travel is stressful, but I adore it. At some point, galloping down the up escalators (when there’s no one coming up), and other childish self-entertainment will become impractical and undignified, and at that point, I guess I’ll be too old to travel because my diversions will not be do-able.
Two days ago, I waited a half an hour for my friends at the Auckland airport …reviewing my last message to them , and their last one to me, I figured all I needed to do was stay in one place. That airport is small and un-confusing.
So I rode the (free!) luggage carts, which behave very unpredictably when you’re scooting on them backwards. Mine mostly twirled in circles, but I got it to (bunny)hop, bit at a time, in a straight line (backwards, cos I was standing on the the cargo runners, holding on to the push-bar). Great exercise and so much more pleasant than lighting up a ciggie, like those losers hanging around the automatic doors.
Soon Liz and Marcos were scooping me up and touring me through downtown Awk!land, where a pair of Argentinian travelers on a very laden motorcycle stood on the street, with a world map and twelve languages describing where they’d been, what they were up to…semprelamoto.com, I think. Then on to mussels at their favorite restau, Cosmopolitan….
Livin’ the dream.
(Typin’ the cliche!)
Soon it’s back to the OTHER dream, treehouse dreams and lonngggg nights in Fairfax with my belov’d.