This story began in Cork Airport and now, on the second leg of the journey in Heathrow, the two airports are as different as can be. Cork Airport so small, it could fit Heathrow, maybe five or six times over? That may be an exaggeration. Cork Airport seems pretty mundane compared to the hubub that is Heathrow. As im typing this, almost oblivious to the people from all walks of life walking on their chosen paths with the same goal. To reach their destination. The ceiling above me casts a glow in different shades of colours, presumably to help you to relax. Who knows? A mother with a British accent, tries to pacify her young child while speaking on the phone. A baby cries somewhere in the terminal. A boy scoots along on a scooter that holds his luggage. What a great idea. Different spoken languages all vying to be heard above each other. People dressed in westernised clothes, others in saris and hijabs. The rich buying from fancy shops with the likes of Harrods, and Mulberry which is so out of my price range.
As I sit and wait for my gate to be called, I sit on those seats not designed for comfort, curiousity abounds, for I wonder what goes on behind each person that walks through this airport. I see workers going from one place to another, doing their jobs, families gathering their luggage and heading to the gates. A couple rushing to make their plane. A solitary person with headphones in his ears as he intently stares at his phone slouched on the chair. Shop workers selling their wares and greeting customers, the beep of a passenger trolley carrying passengers to and fro. The tannoy annoucing boarding times for flights. Im sitting here in silence. but with a smile, for I am about to embark on the next stage of the adventure. Where will I go, who will I meet, where I will I end up? For now, my gate is called.
