I don’t see any planes. It’s funny, that. Every minute more people come through the doors marked ‘arrivals’, but the sun glares so fiercely on the windows that you can’t see how they got here. By screwing up my eyes I can just make out a patch of blue sky among all the endless white; but then, it could be my mind playing tricks on me. From a different spot on the concourse it looks almost grey. Maybe it’s snowing outside. Perhaps we’re snowed in, and the entire place is a giant airport-shaped igloo.
The airport’s boiling, as well. If the blinding white wasn’t already enough, the seemingly thousands of people wandering around in their business suits, kaftans and summer dresses aren’t helping. I’m one of them, of course. No idea where I’ve come from and none of where I’m going to. Above all the noise the tannoy system drones unintelligibly about arrivals and numbers and occasionally calling people by name to the arrivals desk. There’s nothing being said about departures, though. There’s probably been another volcano blowing its top in Iceland or another terrorist attack somewhere in America. It would explain why this place is so packed.