Airport Impressions
Marseille Airport.
It’s big—it’s no longer that small provincial airport with cars parked haphazardly on the sidewalk, unloading large suitcases and veiled elderly women bound for North Africa.
Long corridors, labyrinths of lines, and mandatory stops at the duty-free shops with their multicolored LEDs.
There’s still a regional touch, though—the café staff all wear striped shirts. I associate that with Brittany, but the PR firm in charge of the airport’s marketing surely meant to evoke a beach house vibe. And there it is—the lines at the café were very much local, meaning nonexistent. A jumble of people and tangled wheeled suitcases, with orders flying from all directions. A few disciplined foreigners try to restore some semblance of order by lining up in a straight line in front of the register. But they’re quickly swallowed up by the chaotic zigzag that Marseille is so famous for.
Flight to Istanbul
Too much stimulation and too much closeness. I long for freshness and space. Why do people speak so loudly?
It’s amazing how much more you notice French when it’s in the minority—culturally and literally. My trained ear picks it out from the surrounding languages, mainly Turkish. With those cedillas under certain consonants—the “c” and “s,” it seems.
The flight attendants are wearing uniforms that are too small. They’re squeezed into them, which adds to my sense of confinement. I don’t like public transportation. Especially the kind where the windows don’t open.
Too much going on—a screen moving right in front of me, barely 50 centimeters away. The screens of my neighbors on the left and right are covered in fingerprints. It’s revolting. Why make us believe this is high-end when everything is dirty and the flight attendants look cheap? I feel the consumer inside me—not easily fooled and quite annoyed.
Rather than shielding myself, I’m becoming more open. I feel that this is the path to greater ease. Surrendering to the overload of sounds, to the discomfort of a narrow seat and a space partially invaded by my neighbor’s right elbow and knee. Adopting a vague gaze, capable of letting the images on the screens dance in a saving blur. To dissolve, to forget myself.
In fact, in *Moonbeams of Mahamudra*, I read: “In a state in which nothing is identified, a naked or quiet stillness will occur.”
Istanbul Airport
Memories
I look at the departure boards filled with distant destinations: Tehran, Doha, Kuala Lumpur—a whole imagined direction I’ve never actually traveled toward. The flight to Beirut is canceled. That’s what catches my eye. That country has suffered so much. I knew several Lebanese people in Boston. There was the shoe salesman who spoke impeccable French without ever having set foot in the country; the woman at the food truck who sold the falafels I loved so much and who added extra tahini just because she knew I adored it. And Layla, with whom I’d spent a vacation in Jamaica in 1995 or 1996.
Lebanon, a country that has always been close to my heart and where I’ve never been either.
Another face also comes to mind. A dark-haired man with a deep, intelligent gaze. I knew him well. Yet I’ve forgotten his name. He spoke French and had learned Arabic on the street. He was studying astronomy or physics. Was he at MIT, or was he at Harvard? It all feels so far away now. It’s as if these memories belonged to someone else.
Snippets and impressions
While waiting in line for the restroom a little while ago, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. I was the tallest person in the entire line. I felt Swedish or Danish. In front of and behind me were women whose tops only reached their cheekbones. I think they were speaking Russian. I wondered what it felt like to be hated by an entire part of the world.
Turkish has cedillas that give it a rather sexy look. Under the “c,” but also the “s.” And umlauts that make the words look surprised. Turkish men are gray. To me, the women don’t have any color yet, but they have black, round eyes that defy patriarchy.
The height of chic is to travel dressed entirely in creamy white. With a large linen scarf that doesn’t drag on the ground.
The wheeled suitcase is carried on the side, slightly in front of the body. It’s a major airport fashion faux pas to stack another bag on top of it, threatening to spill its contents on the escalator.
A fanny pack around the waist is definitely old-fashioned; worn as a scarf, it’s stylish.
A baseball cap and Birkenstocks worn barefoot say: “I’m back from a vacation on the Red Sea; I had so much fun I didn’t have time to change.”
Another notable fashion faux pas: walking around the airport with your airplane pillow slung around your neck. The seasoned traveler only takes it out once settled in for the night on a long-haul flight. And he or she has the matching eye mask—preferably from Burberry’s “Plane Edition” (it doesn’t exist; I made it up for this, which just goes to show I’m one of the insiders).