I love airports. When I go to an airport it's a promise that I'm going somewhere. Probably somewhere exciting. A promise of the new. I'm carrying my bag or suitcase happy and excited, except on those occasions when I want to stay but I can't for this or other reason (I will never forgive you, Canada). I love airports. Check in. Is my life I'm carrying too heavy? Will I have to leave even more behind? Passport, lagguage tag. My earthly possessions disappearing on the conveyor and from now on their own trip in the belly of the plane. I love airports. The security procedures and grumpy officers who will  never smile and want me to believe that the success of my trip depends on their permission to leave. Take off your jacket, take off your shoes, belt, socks, and what not.  Empty the pockets, please leave the lighter.  Quick, quick. Coins, keys, computer, Ipod, Ipad, Iphone. I’ll phone when I land, on the other side. Socks. Beeep. Step aside. Off you go. Duty free. I’m duty free, tax free, on the land that belongs to nobody. Unbearably light. I love airports. Delayed flights, hours spent sleeping on  hard benches. Paperback books. The Economist. People watching. Shops with too expensive souvenirs, ugly postcards... thimbles, which She will never receive. I love airports. Nervous people, praying Jews, screaming children. Last calls. I love you too. I will see you soon, or never again. The plane is ready to board, please prepare your boarding cards and passports. Boarded. Find a seat. Fasten your seatbelt. The emergency procedure is in front of me, the airport is behind. The point of departure, the new one is ahead. Engines on, taxiing, taking off... I have left another one I love behind.

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