I’m standing by a white door in Sofia Airport. I’ve been standing by this white door, in Sofia Airport, for so long now that I’m beginning to miss my old life; a life that didn’t revolve around me standing by a white door. I keep trying to remember a time before this door was my world and everything in it, but my mind repeatedly goes as blank as its snow-coloured paint.
“Maybe you should go and talk to them,” says Mike (aka Brindo), snapping me out of my staring contest with the white portal that refuses to give me what I want. I nod my head, and walk in the direction of the sullen Bulgarian man at his desk; a man with eyebrows so thick and dark that I’m convinced you could fall into them and never be seen again.
“Your bags… not here. They are at Heathrow”
“Err… hi I was just wonderi-”
“I tell you this already. Belt Four. By white door,” comes the reply before I can get my words out.
“But you said that before. And the time before that.”
The eyebrows with the mouth hesitates.
“Go there,” he says, pointing at a desk about six yards to his right, “Talk to her.”
After a few minutes of talking with ‘Her”, I hear the line I’d been dreading.
“Your bags… not here. They are at Heathrow.”