It’s 12:55 am at Stansted Airport, and we await our morning flight to Bilbao, the most direct route to Pamplona — at one time this seemed such a distant possibility — and our new home. We’re at Costa Coffee and the place is rocking like a Vegas eatery after a Sinatra show!
Stansted is a 24/7/365 airport, and, while the departing flights are now over, the Int’l Arrivals still spew humans looking ready, tired, wacked, drunk, hampered, bland, or happy. I took a walk around a while ago. Many humans of various shades and smells have taken up spots along walls, in corners, or one of the several all-night places. The cheapos won’t fork over the price of a Panini & coffee & dessert for a comfortable chair. Fuck them.
We’ve got a great corner seat with high-back cushioned seats with a view of all the action. I downed a big-big-big coffee about two hours ago, and I’m flying. Maybe I’ll not even get a wink of sleep; looks like a game of Scrabble is on the menu!
We’ve left our palace apartment in Prague for good. We took a last walk around an hour or so before we left; good times in that home, and in the city where we were married. Yet only as we left, and the door closing behind us, did it really strike that we’d never again go into that apartment. No tears were shed, and the feeling left us as we boarded the metro toward the airport.
Now we have a new flat to move into in Pamplona tomorrow. We’ll get there in the afternoon, see our NEW flat, and begin a new story in our lives, a continuation of what we have together, yet in environs and under conditions excitingly new, adventurous, and exotic (in some ways).
But … we’re in limbo at the moment: no apartment in Prague; Pamplona a day away; we’re in an airport with dozens of others doing much the same thing, only their stories intersect with our only for this night. That is, unless I use one in a story some day.
I’m taking notes.