Airport

I stood at domestic arrivals last night, waiting for my uncle who, due to a mysteriously missed connecting flight in Qatar, landed almost eight hours later than scheduled, and about 36 hours since leaving home in Norfolk.

I knew he would be exhausted, and I expected to see a man on which that showed. I envisioned a wrinkled shirt and equally winkled face, with heavy eyes, and the stiff gait that two days in transit gives you. He took ages to come out, and I just figured that would be why.

And while I waited, I watched. 

I have a love-hate relationship with airports. I love the bustle. I hate the rush. I love the excitement. I hate the stress. I love when I'm off somewhere. I hate when I'm not. I always leave with a fresh wave of wanderlust, and a secret plan for my next adventure. Most of all though, I love how I feel about people.

No matter how tired or annoyed people are while they fly, disembark, and fight each other off for their luggage, the minute that dividing door at arrivals opens, they are 'home'. I saw strangers being welcomed by locals as they, I imagine, discover Cape Town and South Africa for the first time. They are friendly and welcoming to each other, and there is no fear, hate or discrimination. I saw loved ones reunited: lovers embrace after physically or just seemingly long absences; the meeting of families where distance and delicateness dissolves into delight; and the shrieks of sheer joy as parents and children are joined together again. I saw proud pilots and sociable staff, and I felt warm inside.

And then I saw him. Casual after the charge of the crowd, he came: wornout, I'm sure, but looking absolutely wonderful!

Welcome back to Cape Town, uncle Ed. We are so glad to have you here with us!