Remembered glimpses, or, Reasons I Love Airports

A collection of scenes from my travels between Sete, France and Rome, Italy last February:

Narbonne, France: The train caboose -two men opened the train door facing the tracks, ignoring the one you're supposed to use. They jumped down, hopping onto the opposite platform to leave the tracks. A mystery of motivation, running the gamut from simple meaningless defiance to eluding justice. A tempting scene.

Girona, Spain: A four-year-old fairy decked out in purple tutu and boots with clashing puffy pink jacket dangles between two loving arms.

Girona Airport: Someone just did a handstand in the airport; now his girlfriend and he are taking turns standing and walking on their hands. All this preceded by a soft, under-her-breath ditty, "Ba-da-da-da-da.." Now they practice dance dips and swings.

Still the airport: Another four-year-old, this one kicks around a blue soccer ball with her dad. Or she crawls the airport floor chasing it, finding endless sources of amusement in this beige stone and glass structure.

Also, a cute couple sits in long serious discussion at the coffee shop, sharing stories and plans. Nothing out of the ordinary except for her well-made lion suit and painted face.

The tiny soccer player has abandoned the ball and drifted instead to dream land, drawing shapes only she can see in the air. Or, no, she's playing make-believe. She's building something at one cafe table which she then transports to another station in a very specific spot about three-feet above the ground between my backpack and the stool she's leaning on.  It's a complete loss of self, imagination has taken over and time exists no more.
... No more until her adults notice her singing and swaying; they must now become her audience. The self returns and attention must be paid!

I love the richness of airports, especially the personalized world everyone brings with them. People are very basic; they brush their teeth, eat, play with or yell at their children... all without seeming to notice the rest of the crowd around them. I think it's a way we guard our privacy: simply pretending that we have some.

Naples to Sorrento...

 These are all pictures from Trianon Pizzeria in Naples, Italy. It was, my own mother's pizza notwithstanding (sorry, Mama), the best pizza I have ever tasted. Of course, they've been making it since 1923, in the city where pizza was born. YUM.


And below begins a project I've been brewing up for a while. The following is an excerpt from my travel journal in Italy. So much life goes on all the time, but I seem to notice more bits and pieces of it when I'm on the road... Hope you enjoy some of my impressions...


February 21, 2010 (or 21/02/2010 as it's written in Europe -they switch the day and month)
On a train from Napes to Sorrento, Italy

We didn't see much of smiling grubby Naples, but I am a little charmed by it all: by the quadruple-deckered pizzeria with the busy bossy staff who melt into helpfulness and smiles when you, the American tourist, ask to take their picture, by the pizza maker who gives dough to curious Italian bambinos, and again by a friendly female behind the espresso counter. You have to figure she's collected a few stories of her own, working in the train station district, her little caffe filled with a swarm of over-the-hill Neapolitan gents.

Then there’s the achingly young couple on the metro: genial dad and bone-tired mom, a laughing, rosy dark baby. The Indian student in the next seat is completely captivated by this baby: "Belissimo!" He takes the small family's photo, strikes up a conversation. He speaks a mixture of Italian, Spanish, and French peppered with English and Hindi exclamations. The train car's small population shares a moment. Everyone delights in baby's laughter. A rainbow graces the grey grubby city as our graffiti-clad train heads toward Sorrento...