Illustration by Meredith Owen
Our world is full of evil. The sting from that tail is removed by this place we call home also containing necessary evils, or those tolerated to a greater degree than true wickedness for its own sake. Most folk can reach agreement over what real evil looks and feels like, but things cloud over when surveying the mundane barriers blighting our everyday experience. Maybe the inevitable traffic warden making an appearance (“I’m just doing my job, mate”) to issue a ticket when you’re in a rush and the city fails to provide an allotted parking space. Or Bono (“I’m just the Second Coming, mate”). Taxes (to maintain the brackets theme, one example begets the other). Rain, boiled eggs and queues (or all three in combination).
Airports warrant a dishonourable mention for the boredom and frustration they involve, but mostly for what they identify about the human condition all of us are bound to. If a nice sit down on a bench for a talk with a friend is as close to a session of state-sponsored psychiatry as it gets, airports are privately owned spaces of meltdown for those trapped within them. The reason for this is as straightforward as it is indicative – in the presence of too many other people under our noses and feet, all empathy is lost as we morph into mortal rivals as much as fellow sufferers. “Why’s s/he standing there?” “Can’t they get a move on?” “Why are people?” “Who are people?” “I’m not one of these people.”
Oh mass public transport, ye great divide. No duty-free offer counters our distaste of a momentary delay caused by an inferior example of the species, as naturally our bags are correctly packed and weighed and our belts thoughtfully removed prior to a grope from a security staff member we suspect is allergic to natural light and any other form of human contact. As with everything, some airports are better than others, but mainly such improvements are in areas incidental to getting the lost and confused onto the correct aircraft in an orderly fashion. Zurich’s has plentiful and occasionally very smart smoking lounges but eye-wateringly expensive cheese available from concessions so smart they make Fifth Avenue stores seem tawdry. Heathrow, long in the throes of madness itself, has become so bloated London appears attached to it, rather than vice versa.
The saving grace of landing there is to dodge Luton, the Infernal Town to Rome’s Eternal City. Rome airport can learn a lot from Zurich’s about the provision of smoking facilities, but it brooks no competition in the customer style stakes. Associating Italy and elegance is a comparison as old as Rome itself, but no less accurate because of it, as although the travellers passing through are as bewildered as anywhere else, by dint of being mostly local, their meltdowns are pulled off with a mixture of panache and bespoke footwear. Across from the country’s capital lies the coastal region of Puglia, by the Adriatic Sea in Italy’s heel, which proves a strong attraction for holidaying locals, with its various historic villages, towns and idyllic getaways offering plenty of what Italy does best – hospitality and style. In the shape of Borgo Egnazia, situated in Fasano, both elements are combined in a single, unforgettable package.
Read the rest of the story by NoéMie Schwaller and Paul Stewart in DASH S/S15 Saturation, available for purchase here.
