Airports tales

When I was a kid to me the airport only meant seeing my dad again.
It wasn't happening that often, but sometimes we were going to pick him up at Caselle, waiting among the shops and the cafes for him to appear between the smoked glass sliding doors.
There was the excitment to see him again, but for me, since the beginning, it had also started to be mixed up with another kind of emotion: the emotion of the airport itself, the emotion of leaving, of selecting and closing your necessities inside a small suitcase to be carried along with you and thinking that now you are here but in a couple of hours you will be thousand of kilometers away.
During those times my biggest travels were Liguria's seaside, less than a 3 hours drive from home: I didn't know yet what was behind those smoke glass sliding doors, I wasn't yet skilled with all the procedures and the rules that flying requires.
I had just seen the slice of world which had been given to me at my birth; but yet there was something in these aseptic and frenetic places which was attracting me in an unexplainable way.
It was the seed of the travel bug which was already growing inside of me.