Postcard from the Airport

Thirty-five! I made it so far.

Here I am—on my way to Paris. Airports have always fascinated me. They’re chaotic, colorful micro-cities where stories pass through like wind. I always feel like an ant in an anthill—buzzing, moving, waiting.

Me and my Starbucks coffee, parked on a chair in Terminal Whatever. Watching people. Observing lives in transit. Everyone here is carrying a story. Some wrapped in silence, others bursting at the seams. The airport is just a pit stop in their life’s journey, but oh, what a diverse parade of humanity!Everything is moving—suitcases rolling, children screaming, announcements blaring, someone frantically searching for gate B27 (always the farthest, always!). It’s a symphony of jet lag and coffee breath. But I love it. Because airports are full of life. Of transitions. Of walking stories.

I sit, I sip, I observe.

There’s the guy in the tailored suit with a Bluetooth earpiece glued to his head. He’s clearly negotiating world peace—or maybe just rescheduling a meeting. There’s a couple arguing softly, in that specific married-for-10-years tone. A teenager with glitter on her eyelids and a passport covered in Hello Kitty stickers. And then there’s the group of tanned influencers, all oversized sunglasses and matching beige tracksuits, already editing their beach content for likes.

Every person in an airport is mid-story. Some are heading home, some are running away, some are simply collecting moments. Some wear grief, others wear dreams. A few just wear too many layers because they didn’t want to pay for extra luggage.

And then there are my people—the Romanian travelers. You’ll recognize them instantly, no matter where you are in the world.

Let me tell you a little something about them. I’ve classified them into two categories:

1. The Grumblers (aka “Papornița Squad”)
These folks wear the mood of a gloomy November afternoon. Loud, restless, constantly complaining. You’ll spot them right away:

Plastic raffia bags? Check.
Complaints about boarding procedures? Check.
Yelling “da’ cum adică nu se poate?” at an innocent staff member? Triple check.

They need to be the first on board—even if they’re sitting in row 31 and the plane isn’t leaving for another hour. They elbow their way past you like it’s a national sport, only to abandon the prime seat they fought for when told it costs extra. They dream of Europe, of a better life, of being worldly. But their instincts? Still firmly planted in the muddy village of “me first.”

You’ll find them in every corner of low-cost terminals.

2. The Veterans.
Ah, serenity! These are the calm ones. They wait quietly at the gate, maybe reading something on their phones. They know the drill. They don’t lose it over a three-minute security wait in socks. They smile, whisper, and glide through check-ins like seasoned travelers.

Low-cost flying is, hands down, the best test of patience, empathy, and social survival skills. Our dear Grumbler is in a rush—always. He must be first in line, elbows ready, bag swinging like a weapon. And when he hears his “favorite” seat costs extra? Poof, suddenly that first-row throne isn’t so sacred anymore. Still, the herd instinct is strong—even on the plane stairs. They want to look modern, explore the world, maybe even live abroad. But deep down? Still sheep. Just sheep in a different terminal.

And between the two? There’s me. Somewhere between amused observer and accidental participant in the madness.

Bonus Characters in the Airport Circus:

• The Overpacker: dragging a mini wardrobe disguised as a carry-on.
• The Security Sprinter: always late, always sweating, always clutching a boarding pass like it’s a lottery ticket.
• The Perfume Enthusiast: left unsupervised in Duty Free and now smells like a Chanel explosion.
• The “Gate A5” Wanderer: spends two hours in the wrong terminal, sipping wine near Gate A5 only to realize they needed B17… which is 22 minutes away on foot.

Airports are a bizarre kind of theater. A mix of waiting rooms, shopping malls, and existential crisis centers. It’s the only place where you can see someone eating lasagna at 6 AM, while another drinks gin and tonic in flip-flops next to a woman in a fur coat and heels.

But here’s the thing I love most: airports don’t lie. They expose people in their rawest, most in-transit version. Without the mask of their home, their job, or their Instagram filter. Just them, their bags, and their story.

And me? I’m here with my notebook, already halfway in Paris in my mind, but still grounded in the absurd poetry of Gate 13.

Happy birthday to me!