Those were the exasperating yellow on black words I read as I neared the end of the incessant marathon walk at Dublin airport this week.  The Ryan Air gates were miles back from the airport main doors.  Literally miles.  I walked, I made progress along the moving walkways, and then I walked some more.  There were no seats along the way, not even any pillars to prop yourself up against.  In front and behind there were just harried people, never stopping.  If I slowed down, heels and suitcases marched and trundled past me, screaming ‘you’re not going fast enough!’  Then, nearing the end, before I broke free, I had to pass through the final check.  I looked down as I walked and saw the needless instruction to not stop.  Honestly, I hated the person who had come up with the idea of writing that, and if I ever met him or her, dear only knows what I would do.

So now I have made this conclusion: big airport terminals are my nemesis.  You can’t stop, you can’t get in people’s way, you can’t be bad at walking, because if you are, you’re in the wrong place.  There were no staff along those corridors, and no wheelchairs.  I looked around me a couple of times, and wondered at the able people rushing forwards, looking important.  I looked at my feet, never landing steadily in front of me, slapping the ground as my legs got heavier and heavier.  I had somewhere to go too, but it was a nearly impossible destination.  I ceased to care about getting out of the airport, I was aiming for a chair, any chair would do.

You see, you don’t need to tell me to keep walking.  I’m on my own mission now: to survive Terminal One, and to find a place to rest.  I won’t stop until I do.