The bloke at the airport. London town, all year around. With heavy London accent and a surprisingly friendly assistance. Took ama across the airport; an old one pushing one older. Tattoos on his arms indicate years of wrong decisions. But this is London town, his home, his land, and his particular accent says it all. A friendly old bloke at the airport. The pain in his old hands, but the shining youth underneath his sparkly eyes. Hands worked over the years, yet eyes remained bright. The happiness in them overlook the hardships. Rationality is forgotten and he becomes a London lad yet again. I saw his hands and his smiling face, and I gave the five dollars not knowing pounds. He beamed brighter; his eyes victorious over the wrinkles, as his aging hands took the very money to add it into a bank of air. Another hard day at work, another cigarette. London town is calling outside, and he–a part of it, thrives in it quite passively, unaware.
Travel writings, 2009/06/01
