In the Madrid airport I found myself looking at geometry.
Trippy. I don’t remember this from my previous two times at this airport.
I loved these stacks of luggage.
Huge ceiling fan. I hope it’s well affixed, I thought.
Why? Must be a minimalist decorator.
The airport was quiet. It was a little past 9 in the morning, so not an unholy hour. Hardly anyone was in line for passport control or security. It was a far cry from my memory of my family running through the airport, dodging people and smokers (yes, smokers!) to make our flight to Rome in 2001.
I didn’t realize that I would have to go through security during this stopover on the way to Paris, so I had a bottle of water in my bag. I asked the security employee if I could empty my beloved Parisian flask, and without saying anything, he took it and put it in an opaque container that was on a table against the wall, slid the door closed, slid it back open, and handed the bottle back to me. No nonsense, which was perfectly fine with me.
I felt a little thrill saying “Hola” to the border agent and shopkeepers. Nothing like a foreign language to make you realize that you are traveling.