A Night At Gatwick’s Airport

When I realised there were no buses or trains to Canterbury by the time I would arrive to Gatwick, I felt very pleased with my decision of returning to Lisbon. No, I’m not in Lisbon right now, I just arrived to Gatwick’s airport where I will spend the night until the next available train to the end of the world. Lucky me I get to experience one of those British movie scenes in which someone leaves an unattended bag in a seat and there are at least five people from security looking at the bag and whispering “don’t touch it”. Exciting times.

Everyone has cleared the area and I remained seated here, just behind the bag. I couldn’t care less about its content. I’m tired, drained, and I have a huge headache that will only pass when I hit my head on a pillow. And that, my friends, will be only tomorrow, after my 2.30pm meeting with the director of psychology graduate studies. Plus I’m pretty sure it’s not a bomb. I’m sure someone really tired and knackered left the bag behind. That’s probably something that would happen to me today if I was carrying around luggage and bags on top of it. Instead I’m just enjoying my unwillingness to be here and trying to sort out where I’m going to stay at this hour until the next available train.

The trip was quite smooth, except for the long hours waiting to board. This always happens when I depart from Lisbon… can it be a Portuguese problem? At least we are not so paranoid about bags. We are more paranoid about missing a football match or stupid flying policies. Whereas an Englishman will always politely try to solve the issue, a Portuguese man will always complain out loud to anyone who wants and doesn’t want to listen to it. That actually happened on today’s flight, so I speak based on empirical data.

Weird things have been also happening in terms of feelings and sensations. Since the moment I stepped into Lisbon’s airport I could only see references to someone that popped in my head again. Later I felt his nurturing presence, sitting at my left, but while I was way up in the air the strangest thing happened. My heart connection to him broke like a set of Kit Kat fingers. Two fingers to each side, breaking any unhealthy desire to bond. I felt myself detaching from him. I need to process this after finally having some proper rest, but the first thing I can say is that I felt free and grounded. There was no fuss, just a gentle detachment and a sense that I’m free, something I thought I would already be by now. I would be lying if I said I wouldn’t be happier if there was a connection, but I know I can live without it.

I still have a good couple of hours to be with my thoughts. Who knows what weirder things will come up. My first night in an airport, woho!


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