I never really cared for airport amenities.
Coffee shop, restaurant, souvenir store, they’re all the same in my eyes. But I do enjoy being inside of airports in general, the reason for which resembles why I enjoy looking out the window on road trips: movement. The movement creates energy and the energy provides the optimal atmosphere for the ritual.
By ritual, I mean the waiting and the falling in line, and the wondering whether or not the plane has arrived, and the waiting for everyone else to board before entering the gates, and the asking to be moved to an aisle seat, and the picking which Spotify playlist to download before the plane leaves the ground, and the deleting photos while in the air, and the placing a book on your lap but falling asleep before getting the chance to read it. That ritual.
“I saw ‘Daxing’ printed on your ticket. Did you land in the Octopus airport?,” my dad messaged me as I landed at the new Daxing Airport in Beijing.
It’s called the Octopus because Zaha Hadid Architects’ overall design was inspired by the 8-limbed genius of a sea creature. Admittedly, this was one of the better airports I’d stepped foot in—though I wouldn’t say I’ve been to enough airports to have an opinion that holds any water.
When I arrived, we passed through the waiting area right before the boarding gates, where everyone else was waiting to board their own flights from Daxing—I’m not sure if this is temporary and if this is common for other airports as well, but it was a welcome surprise. I never really cared for airport amenities, but I’m standing by this feature, for sure.
“For the meantime, enjoy. I heard there are 5 Starbucks in the Octopus,” my dad continued as I waited for the next high-speed train en route to the city.
This airport had good movement and therefore, good energy.
The almost otherworldly design played a role in this, of course. It felt like being in some floating ship in Star Wars. I can almost hear Marshall Eriksen from How I Met Your Mother’s voice in my head: “The only people in the universe who have never seen Star Wars are the characters in Star Wars and that’s ’cause they lived them, Ted, that’s ’cause they lived the Star Wars!”
Like most things in China, the place was huge and it made you feel small just being in it, but it also made you feel like a part of the space, and not simply taking up space.
I love people-watching in airports—please add that to the ritual.
It’s the perfect place for it, almost as if they were built specifically for the activity. So much sonder energy, a virtually endless stream if one is patient enough. Pick a person, make up a story, and let your imagination do its thing. It’s the Super Bowl of people-watching; I can’t imagine ever getting bored at an airport for this sole reason.
Sometimes I wonder, in the last 24 hours, how many people have sat on the seat I’m sitting on—a wildly disgusting thought if you’re a germophobe. How many people have walked the same steps I just did? How many goodbyes has this terminal experienced today? How many old faces has it seen?
I guess, movement also means nothing stays put, nothing remains constant. Movement means impermanence.
About a month ago, I met with my college friend Thea at the Ninoy Aquino International Airport Terminal 2 for a really quick catch-up at about 1 o’clock in the morning.
It was our first time seeing each other in person since the beginning of the pandemic. She had just arrived Manila to attend some meetings in the city, while I was just about to leave to go back home to Iloilo. I thought this was the quintessential airport meet-up. It was little pocket of static space and time carved out amongst all the motion. We sat down for about an hour right outside a Seattle’s Best Coffee before her ride arrived to pick her up.
The airport is, by definition, where everyone goes to leave.
This might be where all that magic and energy stem from. It’s a made-up world, where nothing much matters other than arriving early enough to make your next flight—and not losing your ticket. But be that as it may, time doesn’t really exist here; breakfast time for one person is bedtime for another. Food prices are through the roof, while duty-free items are supposedly cheap. People don’t speak the same language. People enter with their shoes off only to wear them again immediately upon entering.
It’s all made-up. And it’s great.
Everyone has a story here—a failed adventure, a painful farewell, a near-death experience, an exciting new one on the horizon, a reunion, a first-time solo trip, a big move.
It’s all energy. And I wonder, at what feels like the end of this string of thought, how much of this can be harnessed. How much of this same energy can we find every day, where time is real?
How much impermanence and wonder live in our daily rituals? Enough, I hope.