On Friday morning, I drove Tarja to the airport. The traffic was very smooth and we were almost there. We could already see in the sky the almost incessant ballet of planes taking off and landing.
It must be terrible to live in the area. I remember when I was younger, my parents and I went to a friend of theirs in London; he lived less than four kilometres from Heathrow. The horror! Even at night, there was sometimes air traffic.
We entered the short-stay parking lot. I parked the car as close as possible to the luggage carts—Tarja’s suitcases weighed a ton! We walked to Terminal 1 to check in her luggage, her plane was taking off in an hour and a half. When we reached the boarding gate, there was already a line of about twenty people.
Tarja turned to me.
“Well then...”
She opened he
