Douglas Adams wrote that it can't be a coincidence that no language on Earth has ever produced the expression 'as pretty as an airport.' I have a particular hatred of the concrete spider that is Charles de Gaulle in Paris, but generally I like airports in the same way that I like chocolate wrappers. It's difficult to have a special affection for them, but I like the job they do and am pleased when they do it well.
Anyway, today I'm writing flash fiction about an airport I've never been in - Frankfurt Airport.
It was easier to check one bag, Gina always said.
She packed the case, so she chose what they brought with them. That way, she wouldn't have to spend her holiday listening to Dan complain that he hadn't packed enough t-shirts for Florida. It was a perfect system.
They checked the bag under Gina's name, too. Dan would find a way to mess it up if they didn't.
"I'm going for a latte," Dan said. Gina looked up from her sudoku.
"They'll call the flight soon," she warned.
"I'll be back by then," he said. She fumed quietly. He would be late, and she would have to sit on the plane while they paged Passenger Daniel Frost twenty times.
In fact, they were already paging Passenger Daniel Frost, and he made his connection to Rio just in time - and just as his wife was arguing with the ground staff.
"But my husband isn't here!" she was saying.
"Your bag is checked," said the young man. "You have to board."