Arrivals & Departures

Sometimes the unbridled joy in an airport arrivals hall is way better than a strong dose of Prozac, says Karin Brynard.

- Karin Brynard

It was an autumn heatwave and the Cape mountains were a shimmering blue-grey in the heat of a late summer sun. On the highway to the airport, the traffic was crawling along slowly and my nerves were finished. Because just now the children would be there already and I was still sitting here, cursing and boiling in the car.

And don’t even get me started on the taxis, let alone the rest of the halfwits in the traffic.

By the time I’d eventually found parking and was trotting off briskly towards the international arrivals hall, you could practically weld with me. Not that I cheered up much when it turned out that the plane had been delayed, because now I had to wait for more than an hour. Me and a small army of other people, as three or four jam-packed flights from all over the world were landing almost simultaneously. And it was hot, and my mood refused to lift.

I had worked until the wee hours, getting the house ready for my five visitors and I was feeling it in my bones. I looked around for a chair in vain. Damn. It was going to be a long, painful hour.