The airport was fast asleep

The airport was fast asleep. I was pulled directly towards the bookstore. I wanted to show my dedication by sitting outside until it opened. There was a man parked by the tables, sunken back into one of the comfortable chairs fake leather seat. He looked misplaced. I considered for a while to join him. It looked like the perfect spot to pull out my sketchpad and get to work. However, there was nothing I detested more than getting interrupted in the middle of a good drawing session. So I left the pad resting in my backpack for the time being. I figured one of the numerous overpriced coffeeshops would open soon enough. As much as it hurt paying for the 'large' cup of coffee - honestly paying for it didn't hurt as much as actually receiving it, figured something with that name connected to that price would be a two hand effort carrying to the table, finding out it was closer to the fine dining cups your grandmother carefully lifted out of her glass cabinet on a Sunday with guests. The coffee wasn't bad tho. I quite enjoyed it. The pain was quickly redeemed as I got settled by the table and found a place to plug my computer. Now we can really get to work.

I love the atmosphere of airports. Sleeping or not, they hold a certain magic. It's the magic of possibilities, the magic of mixed culture, the magic of the wast space of the atmosphere opening up to you. The magic of being about to do what was thought to be impossible for thousands of years.

I had way to much luggage. Again. I had succeeded to travel with only as much as allowed to take on directly to the plane. Now I was back to oversized bag for checking in. It made me slightly stressed out, and why I was convinced I needed to bring 10 dresses to a winter on a skiresort was strange even to me. The dresses got packed and there was no way of getting them out of the bag once they settled. I could spend hours lifting one up, trying to picture myself wearing it, and each time I would either achieve it or the emotional attachment to the damned thing would take over and I would neatly fold it and lovingly place it in the bag again. I did enjoy this picking up and putting back of the dresses. I loved looking at, touching and wearing my dresses.
I've always loved dresses and heels, but I feel like its only the last couple of years, or even year, that I've really grown into wearing it. And there are few places, in my opinion, better suited for dresses and heels than the airport. Travelling I wont risk getting entangled in a awkward love trap situation, so in that way it outdid bars. I didn't risk wearing a not so fitting color or break some fashion pattern of a certain group. I never knew how to dress for the occation, I always seemed to fail the challenge in one way or another. On airports however, I don't belong to a group, and I'm not aspiring to become a part of one. I could be heading straight to a cocktail party as soon as I land for all they know. And, I suppose, I care very little if anybody got offended or disliked the way I dress, especially on an airport. Perhaps it's another component of the enchantment. I don't know where they are going, or came from. They don't know where I am going, or came from. I love to pretend that I'm not only an aspiring author. I am an author. Perhaps I'm on my way to a book signing. Or I'm travelling in research purpose. I'm visiting my artist friend for preparations of a collaboration. I can't be still, therefore I move and go.
The best part of that fantasy is that the last part is true. The best part about airports, is that they make it possible.