Another day. Another airport. It is a little before five in the morning and the bleary-eyed traveler wades their way through a relatively small mass of people. Several of the shops are closed – remnants of a day gone by. As I make my own way through the people, couple of hours to kill before hopping off to my destination, I can’t help but be reminded of days gone by. Not that there is necessarily much to remember. Ramblings. Musings. The difference is sometimes subtle.
As the clock hands (unfortunately, digital ones) slowly move past five, the shops start opening up. Employees who have woken up early just to help people like me deaden the sound of the ticking of the clock. The stores are all open now and I walk through a couple of them – not really sure what I am looking for but pretty sure that it is not here, not now; and even if it was, it would certainly not be for sale. Not to me, for sure.
I eventually make my way to a bakery-café – every time I pass through this part of the airport terminal, I try and stop by. The staff is friendly and warm. I remember that their scones taste pretty good. I also remember that they forgot to warm my focaccia once. And you get free refill. A few travelers are ahead of me, getting their morning cup of caffeine fix. I order two scones and a cup of coffee. Black, please. Just like that darkness inside your soul that sometimes threatens to eat you up. Almost immediately I am handed a plate of scones and an empty cup (which I can fill up from the fountain of everlasting life in the corner). The person behind the counter does not even look at me – she is absorbed in a world of her own. The special kind of being self-absorbed that typically happens early morning, when you try and huddle up to yourself, bracing yourself for the cold (world) outside. She doesn’t tell me that I can refill my coffee. Oh well.
I settle down at my usual spot (at least I think it is my usual spot) – someone has moved the chairs around so that I have a slightly different view than the last time I was here. I can’t be bothered to move it around. Slowly, I nibble at my scones, making dents into its shell. Occasionally, nuts tumble out, seeking their release from the confines of their scone-world. I am facing a kiosk which typically sells socks and some knitwear. There is a person behind the sales counter, carefully folding some grey material. I realize that they are the curtains that hang around the kiosk when it is closed. Slowly she puts them away under the counter, a resting place of their own.
Someone begins to play the piano which is very close to the spot where I am sitting. Nothing too jaunty but not too subtle – a sort of wake-up tune. The music fills up the place. The person behind the counter seems oblivious to the few passersby who applaud the first piece – she continues to jab away at her terminal screen and making some notes on a piece of paper. I am almost through with my first scone and the cup of coffee is threateningly close to being empty. The refill offer would have been nice. The next piece starts, and I think it sounds a little bit like the opening tunes of The Arrival of the Birds or maybe Transformation by The Cinematic Orchestra. A few more seconds in and I don’t think that is true – probably something else that I don’t recognize. But it is nice. It seems to be breathing the people around me with a bit of a life.
Suddenly, it is no longer five in the morning but maybe five in the evening – there are people having their coffee and buns, their eyes lit by the glow of warm lighting that surrounds them. It is dark outside, but nice and cozy inside with piano music filling the air. The piece ends and the third piece starts. She is still oblivious to the music around her, making notes on her piece of paper. Makes me wonder if it is someone’s job to come in every morning and wake the place up. She doesn’t register the music because it is routine to her. For the rest of us weary travelers, the escape is a boarding gate away – off to somewhere else. But for her, and others like her, the idea of escape is probably different.
I notice the hint of a transformation within me. This whole time, I have been thinking of writing. I haven’t written in years – it is probably a long forgotten, slumbering something. I might try and write about these musings (ramblings), I tell myself. The music ends, there is no applause. There is no fourth piece – the person has probably gone off somewhere else, their morning duties completed. I struggle and finish off my second scone and drain the dregs of coffee. Nothing around me has changed. The person behind the counter continues to do something with her computer terminal and piece of paper, the café staff are slowly clearing up the plates from the tables, a passenger with headphones around her ears has remained oblivious to everything and continues to watch something on her phone, and the endless queue of people passing through the duty free counters remains unending. Cést la vie. What can you do?
~ Parekh, Pravesh
7th October 2023; 06:33 AM
Oslo Airport (en route Montreal via Copenhagen)
