Airport Observation 

I’m not going to sit here and tell you it’s all amazing. But to be completely honest, I will only ever put the best bits up on Facebook.I syphon my life like that, we all do; no one wants to read things that are completely real and raw, at least not all the time. 
The most interesting thing about sitting at an airport by yourself waiting for a flight is watching all the other people within the terminal. Wondering what there story is, where they are going. 

The smartly dressed dapper businessman, with no carry on luggage, only a suit bag, sitting at the bar of the seafood and caviar house, sipping what could only be imagined to be an exorbitantly priced glass of red wine, tapping away at his iPad. He is probably responding to work emails before he becomes disconnected on whatever flight he is catching to go to whatever place to probably talk about acquisitions and mergers, probably making too much money for what he’s worth. Tailored suit, he’s the top of the world, the renowned international business man; epitome of everything that should be lusted after as being successful. 

The classic backpacker. Ten more points if they have dreadlocks. Been backpacking around Europe for so long that they have probably forgotten what month it actually is, or what showers that aren’t in a hostel actually feel like. Half their luck. Their bags span the length of their back, tied to it rope, a sleeping bag and anything else they can try and get away with to be classed as ‘carry on’ luggage. Because no one wants to spend an extra twenty quid on checking a bag now do they? Her hair pulled back into a ‘messy airport bun’ and his beard, showing more than a few days of growth. At first glance they look like they haven’t showered in about a week, but their passport stamps will put everyone else’s to shame from all the places they have been. She must be tired. Resting the side of her head upon his shoulder. 

Then there is the old couple. Probably been together for thirty years or more. She has all the documents planned, their itinerary is down to a tee and he hasn’t don’t absolutely anything, but she doesn’t want it any other way. They sit by each other, talking about their lives not on holiday, anticipating the time they will spend spending inheritance in some random part of Europe. They cherish each other. I can tell by the gleaming looks in their eyes and the way they look at each other under the flourescent terminal lights. She gets up with a slight waddle in her step, he picks up her bag as they head to the boarding gate. 

And then there is me. I’m not going anywhere for any particular reason. I probably should have saved however much money I spent just to go on this weekend trip by myself. Although it may not seem like it for most, this part of the trip is the loneliest. Moments you are left to think are the loneliest. Once I get to where I am going, I’m fine. I forget about people that I know. I forget about how lonely it can be, I leave everything behind when I am somewhere new. 

But I continue to sit here wondering who people are. Where they are going? Are they excited? Dreading the trip? Are they thinking about all this as much as me? Probably not. But I’ve done my customary check in on Facebook, posted my airport pic on Instagram and you better believe that there are some snapchats sent out of that runway; the customary over the wing #wanderlust ones that everyone sends. I’m not a cynic, I’m not ungrateful for my experience; I’m a realist and I’ve worked pretty damn hard to get to this spot. 

That’s the thing about what you learn when you travel by yourself; it leaves you speechless, but then it turns you into a storyteller. 
   
 

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