The Aerodynamics of Nostalgia: An Ode to Airports

I find myself again, much to my excitement, in perhaps my favourite place to exist: the airport. I’m writing from gate fifteen, freshly inspired and keen to jot down whatever mischief comes to mind, as it always tends to in airports.

I love watching people run through terminals, bags tumbling close behind, children dragged along as if fleeing a nearing apocalypse. I love watching herds of families usher each other to-and-fro like spilt marbles scattered onto the floor. I love the smell of rubber and jet fuel. I love the collective anticipation, the close proximity of it all; unitary and intimate, and the simultaneous acknowledgement that you are all more or less meaningless to each other. I love the clock watching, the double-checking of passports having not evaporated into thin air, the shared assurance of an ‘every man for himself’ mindset.

I love seeing people saying goodbye, grateful that my goodbyes are already complete and behind me. I love that, in the air, my life is entirely at the mercy of elements either outwith my control or entirely unbeknownst to me, and that all I am able to do is submit my trust to whatever stranger it has fallen to (a licensed pilot, hopefully). I love that my possibilities on a flight are finite and contained. I can only listen to music that has been pre-downloaded. There is no new information available to me that I might seek out on the internet (nothing but what may be offered to me conversationally by my on-board neighbours or the laminated flight safety manual), and my view is relatively confined to what is in front of me; the world below and the backs of people’s heads. On a plane, your time is preserved for contemplation, as if dunked and submerged in a deep pool of nostalgic resin. Even better, you have free rein to fully indulge in it. Potential guilt that may otherwise be felt for not maximising your time is limited, because really, there isn’t all that much productivity you can accomplish on a flight (unless you buy in-flight Wi-Fi, which, in my opinion, is a terrible waste of opportunity).

I love being unaccountable and free above the clouds, required only to answer to myself and my well-postured flight attendants, who are always dressed so smartly that one wouldn’t dare question their authority anyway. I love observing people I will likely never speak to; united in limbo and purgatory. I love frantically flicking between the songs to choose for take-off and landing. I love boarding a flight set for Edinburgh and hearing the familiar lulls of a Scottish accent. I’ve grown to love turbulence, perhaps, admittedly, in a slightly sadistic manner. Mostly, I enjoy watching people’s reactions, particularly the designated comfort characters. Usually, I find that those distressed by turbulence are always conveniently paired with someone impartial to it. Or perhaps their fears are subdued in their duty as comforters. I like wondering about that, too.

I love ascending and being reminded of my minuscule place in the world, surrounded by strangers I have never met nor will likely share any kind of relationship with. Yet, we happily sit side by side, each in our own individual minds, wondering different things about our entirely different lives. In many ways, we are invisible to one another, clouded and preoccupied by the urgency of organisation. It’s the same feeling I get from sleeping in a hostel bunk room of eight or more people. How comforting I find it to have strangers surrounding me, curled up or scuffling around right in my near vicinity. I don’t tend to trust them, of course, though I sleep strangely better with the soft hum of other people’s snoring, or fidgeting, or whispering to one another. It enables me, in the same way as airport observation does, to play an anthropologist of sorts; quietly making my silent observations tucked in the comfort of my own curtained bunk, tracing the footsteps of those who shuffle quietly in the early hours and who obnoxiously stuff their belongings into their lockers at all hours of the night. I love eavesdropping on accents, some familiar, some tricky to decipher, and usually, when I can’t quite figure one out, resorting to appearance-based presumptions and concluding myself right regardless of my certainty. I did that very thing just a moment ago, Pret coffee in hand, my bruised and browning Uniqlo bag slung over my torso and listening to Beach House, as is my ritual when greeting change.

Many people, myself included, find themselves paralysingly anxious at the thought of change. When I know it’s approaching, I often procrastinate for as long as I possibly can. Moving dates are extended; clothes are packed the morning of departure (much to my mother’s detriment); vital documents remain scattered until the adrenaline of a last-minute scramble kicks in. I even hold the need to pee till my bladder starts kicking. Then, when change comes, as it always does, I adore it. Being situated in that elusive state that one finds themself in, particularly when on a flight and no variables can reach you, I feel probably the most myself as I am ever capable of.

Edinburgh Airport is particularly comforting. Somehow, I manage to be blessed with a window seat on almost every single one of my departures from Edinburgh, with which I take full daydreaming advantage. Flights to and from this airport also enable me to spot my first boyfriend’s old house, a grand old stone castle where I first learnt love, lost my virginity and was fuelled by previously uncharted Belarusian food (which I widely credit for largely banishing my prior dietary pickiness). I don’t see it this time, Scotland is swallowed by the clouds before I can catch a glimpse of nostalgia. Instead, I make do by mulling over the same thoughts I would have had were I to have seen it. Now, twenty minutes into my flight, I write this hurriedly, ever more conscious that my stream of airport inspiration will soon come to an end, and my imagination will inevitably stagnate.

Interestingly (though perhaps only to me), my comfort with a transitioning state translates to the seasons, too. Spring, for example, is my favourite; a season of birth and freshness, emerging from wintry depths, yet not quite there. In it is an air of ‘almost’; a promisingly optimistic time of year, vastly different from the opportunistic scramble of summer. Autumn, as we are in it now, is the same for me. We consider these two seasons, spring and autumn, mainly as living in the shadow of the others. Spring exists as an appreciation of winter’s end and the horizon of summer, and autumn as a cautionary state of preparation for the cold to come. I don’t particularly enjoy summer; it’s much too busy. Every day must be seized, every day measured by how much you can make of it. To waste a winter’s day is easier to conceal unnoticed. Summer, however, should always be spent actively. Summer is opportunistic (and to me, feels slightly oppressive). There’s something impersonal in it to me. People come and go on various holidays and adventures; everyone seems to be doing something different and disjointed from one another. I find that kind of opportunity claustrophobic and almost limiting in a way. Everything is laid bare and naked: bodies on the beach, regrettable tattoos, whether or not your financial state allows for a holiday, and if so, how extravagant? Spring and autumn, however, are gentler in their subtleties; their emphasis unburdened by the spotlight of distinction.

Unfortunately, I’m beginning to feel the effects of my two coffees wearing off, giving way to a hunger that will soon gnaw me into literary paralysis. Usually, when confronted with this feeling, it means I have around a thirty-minute window before everything begins to feel dark, shaky and cataclysmic. Maybe that's something a third coffee could fix.