I recently found myself at Toronto international airport on an unnecessary 3-hour layover as I made my way from Bogota back to London. I’ve spent a lot of time in airports, milling around in overpriced coffee shops observing the diverse array of individuals walking briskly towards their departure gates. All central protagonists in their own stories. 

The airport is a meditative place which gives time for recalibration. This enclosed space which is shielded from the reality the outside world disperses on us. One which exists in a liminal state between different time zones, where the absence of fresh air creates a sense of suspended animation for a few fleeting hours. Anything feels possible. 

I once met a pensive looking girl at an airport in Abu Dhabi. I asked if I could sit at her table to charge my phone (My habit of never having a fully charged mobile is a lifelong one). We talked for fifteen minutes about our individual journeys; I gave her my book I was reading. I can’t remember exactly why, but I remember it felt like the right thing to do at the time, we exchanged names. We forgot about one another.  

I got drunk with a French friend of mine in another airport in Malindi, Kenya. A delayed flight meant one gin and tonic metamorphized into eight. The bar accepted cash only. We had none. Nonetheless we continued to order the juniper and quinine concoctions as the humidity of the non-air-conditioned airport made this a requirement rather than a selfish indulgence. Well, that’s what I tell myself anyway. We paid the bartender via bank transfer the next day and all remained well with the world.  

Back to Toronto airport. It was a Sunday and not just any regular Sunday. The final Sunday of the Masters golf championship. I walked around in pursuit of a restaurant with tv screens to watch other men who possessed a lot more control on a golf course than myself. In my quest for a place that met my requirements, I stopped at a small snack kiosk to ask the man working for directions. He couldn’t help me much, but he was gentle with his words and seemed like a nice man. I noticed the gentle cadence of his words and the black turban adorning his head, a subtle indication of his Punjabi Indian heritage. I asked him how long he’d been in Canada for and if he was enjoying it. I knew his answer before he opened his mouth. It was evident he was a fish outside of his pond, an eagle with constrained wings, a golfer without his clubs.  

“It’s ok, I miss home though. India is always home”. 

His words left me with a poignant sense of sadness. Here he was, like millions of immigrants before him and the millions that would come after. Driven by ambition, seeking knowledge, chasing a better life. And yet he was torn away from the culture that had molded him while also distanced from his bloodline. He worked obediently behind the airport kiosk and as he spoke, I knew he sometimes stood there, in quiet contemplation, serving travelers as they purchased their preflight snacks. All while secretly wishing he could board any flight that would take him back east. Back closer to home. 

I’ve had massages at airports. I have slept at airports. I have cried at the airport and have missed multiple flights at the airport.  It’s a place where lives converge. Where people race towards their aspirations or flee from their pasts.  

As I walked away, I couldn't help but feel a sense of empathy for the Punjabi man, silently longing for home amidst the hustle and bustle of the airport. I wish him well. 

For now, I have a flight to catch. 

Dear Airport, I will see you soon.