This week, Nataskia shares how time and rules ebb and flow within the walls of airports. It doesn’t matter which airport you enter, the rhythm is the same. From hustle and bustle to wandering and idling, the airport is a place where the coming and going meet.
The sun starts to peek out, casting hues of orange and red, the glow of sunrise bringing to light the shapes that were once hidden amongst the shadows – a tip of a wing, the stripes of a runway, the windows of the sky bridge. Here, people’s heads pop briefly into view as they make their way from the terminal onto their waiting plane, boarding to a destination beknownst only to them.
I love airports. The hustle. The bustle. The cacophony of languages spoken around me. I adore arriving early at most (because let’s face it, not all airports are created equal) to meander through the departures hall, make my way to the check-in, and then go through the rigamarole of removing electronics, belts, and jackets before passing through security. It’s a dance that those who travel often know all too well, the steps sometimes looking slightly different from time to time (like only passing security before the boarding gate at Kuala Lumpur’s International Airport). Still, nonetheless, the rhythm and the flow are almost identical.
Airports are special. They’re a microcosm of society, and rules go out the window in this place. It’s such a fleeting blend of cultures, people, and ideas. There are different types of people making their way through – you pass by family members waving ‘until next time’ to each other, lovers tearing up as they part or reunite again, business travellers, expats throwing one last look at their host country before leaving for good, tourists eager to experience the adventures that await them. Everyone has a story to tell – whether they’re returning with one to share or embarking with one waiting to unfold.
Time and space, too, have minds of their own. Sometimes, it’s downing a burger and beer at 06:30 or ordering a croissant and coffee at 23:00. Maybe it’s feeling rushed through security: the scramble to pick up all coins, bags, electronics, and jackets from the scanned trays before the next tray smacks into yours. But then, the minute you walk away, the rush fades. Time slows with moments to kill – idling, wandering, stopping, browsing, shopping. Anything goes because we’re all coming and going through this momentary limbo.
Adding to this feeling of limbo is the inevitable jetlag from long-distance flights (Europe to Southeast Asia flights, I’m looking at you). You arrive bleary-eyed from interrupted sleep, your body fighting to stay awake as you scan the signs, trying to make it from the plane to your next connection or the baggage claim. It’s like walking in a fog, vaguely aware your feet are moving, unsure if you want a shower, sleep, or food first. It’s a mental and physical tug-of-war between where you’ve taken off from and where you have landed.
At Schiphol airport, I sit by the window, a drink resting on the table, my hand luggage propped up in the chair opposite. I take a sip as I gaze out into the scene unfolding outside. However, airports are funny places. Maybe it’s not the sunrise I’m seeing, but the sunset. With the warm embers of the sun retracting, leaving behind in its wake shadows and a darkness that starts being illuminated by another type of light. But that’s the beauty of an airport: rules, like time, are thrown out the window.
There is no right or wrong.
Nataskia is a Paris-based writer who enjoys exploring food, culture, and identity through her work. She is often found savouring the little pleasures the city has to offer, mostly through people-watching on the terraces with a good ol’ cup of coffee (or a glass of wine). Nataskia has lived in the Philippines, Syria, Chile, Zambia, the United States of America, the Netherlands, Australia, The United Kingdom, China, and France.
You can follow her on Bluesky.
