An airport is the strangest of liminal spaces: you enter an impersonal, sterile, blanched-white box; you wheel your suitcase along corridors that look identical everywhere from Iceland to Peru; you slump down somewhere amid the configuration of grey plastic seats that is always the same; you enter the same metal tube and listen to the same safety announcement delivered in an artificially chirpy video.
In a way I have had the same pattern in my life, always moving. This began as a boy and the habit is engrained. I have been in my current place for 11 years and the itch is growing. The problem is also the same, friends scattered around the world.