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Air travel reminds us who we are. It’s the means by which we recognize ourselves as modern. The process removes us from the world and sets us apart from each other. We wander in the ambient noise, checking one more time for the flight coupon, the boarding pass, the visa. The process convinces us that at any moment we may have to submit to the force that is implied in all this, the unknown authority behind it, behind the categories, the languages we don’t understand. This vast terminal has been erected to examine souls.

Final day. Last group was the most draining - suffering from abusive management. I pack up and get out before 5 to the relative calm of the airport.

The flight is packed and I’m surrounded by a group of pensioners. The one next to me is generating noxious gases. I angle the air nozzle, don noise cancelling earphones, and slip on an eye mask. I sleep pretty well until the steward drops a flask of coffee, splashing me with hotness.