Throughout the thirteen hour plane ride to Taipei, I could not stop watching the woman in front of me. Between bouts of sleep and finding myself staring at the ceiling, I would notice faintly but strongly her presence in a plane full of people. Forty years old or sixty, it was difficult to gauge. Her high, gaunt cheekbones battled against full, tanned cheeks and her hair flecked with dove grey stranded elegantly through inky black. I never quite got a strong, clear look at her eyes or mouth, only glimpses through the space between the seat and the window as I sat behind.
I imagine the heavy thrum I hear when inside an airplane being similar to that of what a baby experiences in the womb.
“Let us weigh your baggage please.” “Would you like your luggage wrapped?” “May I see your flight details?” “EXCUSE ME! EXCUSE ME!”
There’s something both horrible and exciting when stepping foot into an airport. Between the hustle and bustle of people both milling around at a snail’s pace ooh-ing and ahh-ing at the country’s claim-to-fame airport store (Smoked salmon? Kilt wearing potatoes? Eiffel Tower key chains?) and others crashing into each other like waves against fat seals, the energy of an airport- whether it be a large or small- tends to have an effect on me emotionally, physically, and for those of us with extra care for vanity and comfort- my aesthetics.
I’ve mentioned before that I am generally not very good with vacations.
I am, however, excellent at shopping. This most recent holiday to Bangkok met somewhere in the middle.