I love travelling. Ever since I was a little freckled, big-eyed child and my family and I were visiting my grandparents. I loved staring through the window and into the windows of the houses we were passing by – my innocent voyeurism. My dad used to stop midway for a break and sweet treats. That, I would say, was the straight-forward conditioning that today makes me salivate when I think of travelling.

I love to have a destination and I love the travel towards it even more.

Most of all, I love airports – a cosmos that embraces all nations, races, ages, and sexes and makes them equal under the label of travelers. At airports you can simply be.

I’ve cried at airports – real, heart-opening, heartbreaking, childlike cry. I’ve done it twice.

And I’ve smoked cigarettes in the little cubicles for smokers. And in the toilets. Once.

I’ve bought ridiculously expensive nonsense from the duty-free shops. And many cheaper cosmetics and perfumes.

I’ve lost luggage. And I’ve lost sanity. Probably, at the same time.

I’ve said many fair-wells and I’ve been welcomed many times. Sometimes warmly, twice – not so much.

I’ve fallen in love. I’ve made love. I’ve slept on the floor. I’ve missed a flight. And then I’ve slept on the floor again. I’ve been furious, happy, sad, with bad hair, bad breath, had bad food, bad headache and I’ve dreamt of a real bed. At the airport.

And every time is different, every time is new. Every time pulls out of me the deepest, most shattering feelings and my utmost strengths. And I feel alive ever again.

And every single time I reach the airport I realise that I don’t have a plastic bag for liquids. But I have my limitless possibilities.