Barcelona Airport

Airports always carry within them that something of nostalgia. Or does it? It happens to me: I find myself feeling nostalgic while I am waiting there to leave-to-leave or to to-leave-to-leave or to-leave-to-return. Meanwhile I am there, waiting.

It must be that question of non-places: other non-places also have the same effect - overgrown motorways, shopping malls in the middle of nowhere, the space in front of the lift without a spatifillo to purify the air.

And then there is that other issue: the one that as soon as I get on a plane that sense of wonderment ignites at the base of my stomach for the fact that, by dint of trial and error and through perseverance, *we know how to fly. And that sense of wonder I hold on to: every time it appears, I say hello, give grateful thanks and let it go back to hide away who knows where.