That warm, fuzzy feeling left by airports

I love presenting my passport and getting it stamped to go somewhere new.

I grew up in a time where my imagination wasfuelled by books and government TV programmes.

It forced me to get creative to fill the hours. One of the things that sparked the creativity was whenever a plane would fly overhead. I don’t think there was a child in the world who didn’t believe that the people in the plane could see them when we waved frantically.

Already then the desire for travel had been ignited. It was elevated by visits to the airport.

Maybe I’m giving my age away but I remember when visiting the airport was an event. I remember my Mom dressing me up in my best clothes, my Dad with his shoes shining in his Sunday best for photo shoots at weird, random sculptures that seem to permeate most airports.

I can still see that horrible wood panelling that made up most of what was then Jan Smuts Airport. Going to see the planes filled me with delight and I revelled in watching the pilots with their tiny briefcases and pristine uniforms prancing around.

My childhood was filled with dreams of becoming one. I always wondered where people went after going through those magical “gates”. So I settled for the life of a traveller. These days airports have become a regular fixture in my life. The glamour and pageantry that was associated with air travel has long passed for most.

Gone are the days of arriving at the airport dressed to the nines to board a plane. Instead, they have been replaced by those wonky sweats, messy hair and omnipresent, cumbersome- as-hell travel pillow draped around the neck.

Suitcases wrapped like a sandwich in that awful off-blue plastic as people rush here and there. To me the glamour is still there though and airports haven’t lost their lustre.

I love presenting my passport and getting it stamped to go somewhere new. I love hearing all the different languages and seeing all the different cultures packed together in a space.

I chuckle at people who overpack and have to embarrassingly unpack half of their life infront of other passengers.

Airports are often your first impression of a place and I have seen many.

From Botswana’s tiny shacks with a three people handling almost all traffic to the large expanses of modern marvels like Incheon Airport in South Korea where you can have dinner, a massage, catch a nap and even watch a film in a proper cinema house – all while you wait to board.

When you have a long layover, an airport can be your only impression of a place. Before I had the opportunity to visit Hong Kong I spent eight agonising hours waiting for a connecting flight. Agonising because Hong Kong has one of themost interesting skylines that just beckons you to go out and explore it – and you can’t.

I’ve had brief encounters with people, seen kindness, seen the end of relationships and the start of ones, and slept in corners with only a towel or a shirt as a blanket. I do still love airports because it means either you are going somewhere or returning home. For me both are reasons to have that warm fuzzy feeling inside.