I realize a lot of my stories start in airports, I guess that is because I see them as a no-man´s land. I am in transit to another place and so is the people around me. It makes actions simpler, unbound from norms, happening in a people cocktail full of cultural differences. Anyways, going back a few weeks, me and my intransit body are sitting by my gate in Barcelona. Across from me is a rastafari guy with big rings, a football jersey and braided hair. He looks like the sportsfan son of an African king with a regal posture. As I plug my earphones in to get my relax on, I see him asking an older Caucasian couple a question while pointing to a gate. What happens next shocks me. With Enya as soundtrack I witness how the couple look at this profilic stranger with disgust and get up to leave without uttering a word. The prince-like man slumped back in his seat now looking more like a warrior that just lost a battle. He stared at the floor like he was searching for the glow that just fell of him.
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