People go to airports. From time to time. They must go places. And some places are far far away. Some destinations are so distant that walking, driving or sailing there can take a really long time. And ain’t nobody got time for that. Not most people at least. Some don’t mind walking, riding a horse or driving a bicycle, tricycle, or a Lamborghini Quatro Porte from one side of the continent to the other. That, if the road permits.
Some people do mind, though. And for those exact people airplanes were designed with utmost scrupulous precision in order to fit their precious needs. Airplanes are parked in airports. People come to airports to take a plane and the plane takes them wherever. And them airports offer many things. They are like train stations but nicer. Most of them at least.
Many people want to smoke while in an airport. So among other features, airports have smoking rooms. If anybody wants to light a fag, the smoking room is always there, awaiting any fag smoker, regardless of the brand, smell, taste or texture. Every Marlboro, Camel, Chesterfield, Pall Mall and any other cigarette brand fan can congregate in that tiny space.
I am one of those people that fancy a fag at the airport, especially when I show up 3 hours before my flight. I’ve always come early like that. I don’t know why I do it. I’ve always done it. And at this point, I’ll probably still do it.
Anyway, I take my time and walk into the smoking room. It’s always the same deal. I see other humanoid beings minding their own existence while smoking their preferred fags. Piles of smoke are everywhere. I light my own cigarette to contribute to the homogenous cloud that nearly chokes everyone in there.
Supposedly, smoking rooms are for smokers to fulfill their vice without bothering anyone else. But I beg to differ. Airport smoking rooms in particular are designed to make one feel bad. Now, hear me out. You walk in there where other fellas are already smoking. Fumes are encompassing that tiny cosmos in between 4 walls.
It’s like you are trapped in a burning cubicle. The dancing fumes going up and down and left and right all around your visual field make it look even more like you’re trapped. And for some reason you start giving birth to your own cancerous vapor that begins its tango right away, getting itself entangled with every other grey cloud from all the other fag smokers present at the scene.
There’s no bar. Nothing to watch, except a clock and a tiny panel with the flights. There’s a plant, a window, a bench, and two huge ass ashtray bins. So, you just puff your cigarette and watch the others do the exact same.
You start to feel bad. The others around you feel bad too. You smoke some more to forget feeling bad but you actually end up intensifying your bad feeling. You watch the others and you realize they’re going through the exact same things as you do. Once you see that, the bad feeling intensifies even further.
At this point you don’t know what makes you feel worse. Is it you initially feeling bad from the mere fact of entering that depressing smoky limbo? Is it the other geezers stuck in there with you? Is it the hopeless fag smoking act executed by everyone present just to kill time? Nobody can tell.
I look at the small window. The view tells me everything I need to know. A construction site where mud, puddles and trash are harmonizing with each other. All this because I show up 3 hours before my flight and have nothing better to do. Even Taoism feels repetitive at this point.