Standing by the window at Narita, gazing at the clear blue sky, with planes in it. The cold, sleek, antiseptic walls hold back the gritty reality of dirt-marked trucks and rust-spotted machinery going about their enigmatic business outside. You can just hear the excited whispers from the child near you, as he traces is finger against the clear glass wall, eyes following the movement of a plane as it soars into the yawning cyan. Light glinting off the burnished aluminum.
A sense of peace and serenity pervades the scene, and I just feel so removed from the incessant noise of the human wave rushing past me, going about their own, enigmatic, business. I existed in a bubble, and in my world there was only the clear, crystalline sky, the glass, and me, as I stared into the face of awe. But at the same time there existed a tinge of bitterness, as if the world cared little about the thoughts of any of its inhabitants.
Narita is far removed from the cosy grandeur of Changi or the cavernous expanse of Denver International. Food here is expensive to the point of no return. Narita is crowded and airport service is slow. The interior is pleasant enough, but stark, glass and steel merged with the strangely-placed pinks and greens of duty-free shop colours. But so far as it goes, so long as there is one privately placed corner of quiet reflection, Narita served well during the two hours of waiting time for the next flight.