Airports make me cry.
When I was eleven or twelve years old, I was fascinated by airports. I made a couple of hundred drawings, on yellow legal pads, in number one pencil, as I prefer the softness of them, of ticket counters, baggage carts, kiosks, and people at airports.
Venezuelan guys wear cool shoes. But they also wear capri pants.
Pay attention people. These are state forms, they must be filled out correctly. If you were born in Seoul Korea you must put that in box number ten.
Pacing while his entourage waits.
We spent an hour or so watching arrivals -- all sorts of people from the farthest reaches of the globe. People waiting, watching for loved ones. We watched many reunions.
We watched mothers run to grown children, children traveling alone run to parents, grandparents screaming at the sight of grandchildren. And a family from India who broke through the barricades to greet each other and then would not leave each others arms -- just stood there embracing for long long minutes.
And then I realized why airports make me cry.
It's because the arrival area at the airport --
is what I think heaven is like.