Airports must be hell for autistic people. Everything’s so loud and bright. Wading through the tide of perfume slingers, their scents combining into a curtain like cloud between you and the safety of your gate. Even getting that far is an unspoken achievement. They take your bag, give it a sticker and send it on it’s own little holiday through the winding stainless steel conveyers of airport logistics, getting liberally battered along the way. Security has you stripped of your belongings, touched in a routine like manner which is fine for them but makes it no less overstimulating. Once through security you’re in the no-mans-land of duty free. I’m sure the toilets have cameras but I can’t spot them. The restaurant knives are snub nosed and dull, handed to you as if you’re the one they think’ll go off on a mad rampage, cutting up the well meaning people of tourism. Leave your happy go stabby hands at the door, we know your game and as for your so called money, it has a foreigners face on it now so believe us when we tell you it’s worth fuck all so hand it over, this is the airport god-damn-it and we make the rules. I’m not autistic.
My gate isn’t available yet so I asked information which gates my airline have access to, usually they’re in blocks. The dopy girl who looked as though the makeup plastered on her eyelids was weighing them down, either that or she was stoned, informed me that the gate wasn’t open yet. To my question as to where my airline usually resides, she pointed out of the glass wall behind her and muttered “The planes land over there”. I left, defeated.