Glass boxes where people share cancer in negative pressure spaces. A spaghetti western fresco of wild horses, brought to you by Nestle, whose coffee shop advert in clever, golden typography announces to nobody in particular – ‘we are here to love you’.

Yellow gold and white light and polished black stone. Impossibly thin women following obscenely rich men into stores selling garishly minted western dreams, sewn in the East by people who’ve probably never been in an aeroplane. Or the business class lounges. Mmmm. Blackberry mousse and scallops are so delicious.  We need the Extra Comfort, so that we can arrive refreshed for our Big Meetings.  We need the lounges for the Free Wifi and the comfy chairs. We need lots of things. We need. We need so much it hurts.

We are here to love you.

Citi wants to sell you a bank card. Calls to prayer wash the sins out of the steel and stone.

Allahu Akbar.

We are here to love you.

There’s a half hour pilgrimage to the land of terminal C.  Stop at Burger King. Diet Coke please. I’m thirsty, but I want to be impossibly thin. I want the western dreams. Though I’m from the south, I don’t look like it. And I can trade on that. The woman serving isn’t from here. Isn’t even from a thousand miles of here.  Biggest diet Coke ever. Apologies for the change in local currency – ninety five somethings that’ll be nothings when the oil runs out.  But that’s all in the future. Now it’s funsies and cologne and David Beckham and globalization and Burger King served by a woman from Asia.

We are here to love you. To the very last barrel of broken dreams.

People sleeping like homeless angels on hundreds of meters of blue and red carpet.

Snuggled up in the dreaming line. Sleep is anxious, because time is passing – both the hours slept, and the hours simply handed over in the change of geography. Things seem louder on waking.

A man sits aggressively on my bench, rocking everything.  He’s too loud, too physical. Shoveling duty free sweets into carry on luggage. Ramming bag after bag of sugar, and struggling to close its screaming zips. He’s solving the problem with more and more force. More rocking. More. More more. The bag stretches closed – its faux-leather guts straining with candy. With a final shove, he leaves the bench, rocking his neighbours like some human earthquake.

And he’s off down the miles of carpet – a Fight Club Santa Claus.

We are here to hate you.

 

 

 

 

 

Categories: Creative Writing, Travel
  • Informative post , I often travel around the world, so I always try to stay informed. Thanks for sharing.

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