Toronto Ontario from the air...

The flight to Berlin from London was as to be expected- short and sweet. Unfortunately I was sandwiched into a window seat by a hulking, sleeping American couple with no chance for escape, despite rows of completely empty seats begging me to lie across them.

When we arrive in Berlin, we passengers stream through the hallway and a cacophony of digital noise belts out of every hand and pocket, as Germans begin receiving the texts they must have missed since entering the Flugzeug. Dings and bells and whistles of all kinds whizz around my ears. Slowly we shuffle forward, as my stomach sinks anticipating the inevitable customs inspection. And for the second time in a row when arriving in Berlin, der Polizei say NICHTS to me. Not a single word. Just scan my P-Port, flip through the pages, stamp and send me off with a nod. A girl could get used to this.

Exiting the terminal puts me face to face with the second gorgeous sunset I’ve witnessed in two days, the sky a pale glowing blue with steam clouds sent up from some distant Fabrik, framed in luminous pink. I try to get a few shots but the light is hard to capture.

Steam

On the bus now, headed towards Peggy, hopefully Tracy, and possibly a nap. Finally back in Germany, and I’m feeling completely and utterly at home. I didn’t think it would feel this good! Any trace of melancholy I expected to feel at leaving my homeland melted away when I saw the TV Tower looming above the city from the plane.  As I lumber on to the bus with my suitcase trailing behind me, I ask the driver how much the fare costs. He promptly and jovially corrects my German and flashes a smile.

Deutschland, ich habe dich vermisst.

Life in limbo...

Airports have become something of a way of life for me. Within these often massive structures I wander, sometimes aimlessly and sometimes with intense purpose, usually with tired eyes burning and often with a body exhausted by broken sleep or anticipating it yet to come. I read something, inconsequentially squandering time until the next call for boarding. I watch the other travelers. They are here for business or pleasure, alone, with family or friends, excited, miserable or indifferent. Here in London Heathrow I listen to the accents of these travelers; locals drawling with cockney twang, snippets of German which I have come to understand occasionally, a clipped Indian English, something twangy and American.

The ceilings are a thousand feet high here, supported by white industrial beams reminiscent of the Death Star, and there are windows from the tip top of level three down to the asphalt, outside of which airplanes taxi in and out, while luggage cars and transport busses are dwarfed by the magnificence of the flying behemoths bedecked with the Union Jack and emblazoned with the slogan “Keeping the flag flying.”

This is only my third experience with London Heathrow, what I imagine must be one of the biggest airports in the world, but somehow it seems familiar and small to me. I remember the giraffes outside the kitchy eatery on the third level, the Starbucks adjacent to the Pret a Manger on the second level, the Duty Free into which I have invariably ducked to douse myself in perfume (either one of my favorites, Marc Jacobs Lola or Burberry Brit.)

It seems as though every traveler I see is one I’ve encountered before, smiling with anticipation, grimacing with inconvenience, or zoning out with boredom. I’m not sure where I fit in, my frenetic mind hopping from one emotion to another, my face invariably expressing it without my consent. One second there’s a giddy grin plastered across my face, the next a glazed stare out the window or in the direction of a vaguely attractive fellow traveler, still another an anxious scowl of worry about whatever mysterious future is to come, or at the very least, the whereabouts of my departure gate.