The airport (and hygienic paper) as a metaphor

No need to come from Singapore or Qatar to find Portela poor. Nor does it have to even come from the so -called first world. It comes from the second, and sometimes even from the third, where there are airports that may have fewer lights, less freeshops, less brands, less restoration spaces, but – not to mention the rows of immigration – they get people who circulate there to fall (in matches and arrivals) with some vital space between them, and can also deliver their bags in two or three bedrooms (go there, not to be too much, not to be too much demanding). Here, this does not happen, and to live up to the Portuguese canned who have become Brand and the slow that is accurate to produce a good cream pastry, we walk like sardines in the can and, for luggage, we hope at least the time that the dough is to tear. But everything is fine, when it ends well, and then the country is charming, soalheiro, good beaches, safety, great food, friendly people, et cetera. True, but perhaps it was not bad to make an airport once and for all.

Oh, and such, you will do it. Are you going? When? I don’t know anymore. I don’t even know where. I lost the north, because for so many years I hear about the subject, discuss the matter, decide, postpone, reformulate, polemize, question, postpone again, then decide, then so, and all over again. Oh, and such, that it was not in time because it could not be predicted that Portugal, in less than two decades, would become such a fashionable destination, and on top of the multifaceted, because they embark and disembark very different people. Well, maybe 20 years I couldn’t, maybe, but let’s say 10 could already, right? And now too, looking at what has happened and what can happen in a few years. And I do not dare to talk about 10 or 15 years, which should be what will conclude the saint slope of the new airport, after more decisions, postponements, discussions and, right, precautionary measures and processes (or we were not a procedural country)-when finally moving (if ever) and start to rain criticism and suspicion and, et pour cause, the denunciations Chiliques. The custom.

However, and as Galileo would say, Eppur if Muove. Life goes. And we in this, very entangled in the parish and small thing, with a lot of discussion and a lot of procrastination. That is why I asked Susan Sontag’s borrowing title, although to support the opposite of what she sustained in the disease as a metaphor. The author challenges (and well) the patient’s blame, especially in the cases (which uses as paradigms) of tuberculosis and cancer. Physical illness is not an expression of any person’s diminish capitis, there is no shame on you. The fault of the disease is not the patient. However, in the case of the airport forever for doing, it is. It’s ours. It is from our atavic inability to make decisions, and to perform effectively, in time (albeit with exceptions). It is an expression of a certain way of being as a people. Shame on We.

PS – This text was already written, when the blackout that became a lot of inside out and showed our fragility and how things are, after all, precarious. That day, walking from the office home, I had a déjà vu, I returned for moments at the beginning of the confinement caused by the pandemic. And again, I realized the obsession of many to supply, not water, food or medicines, but of toilet paper. Strange obsession, perhaps another metaphor. I almost changed theme and text. It was for a Triz that I did not grab the toilet paper as a metaphor.