In pairs we walk through the tunnel, contained through a rusting fence, prohibited from moving around within a diameter of a maximum of 5, maybe 7 meters. The wooden benches carved and tattered, aged through the passage of time and the weathering of this anguished environment, dirty, filthy, unwelcoming. The walls, dug out by the blowing winds of winter and scraped by the scorching rays of summer, a process recalled by these walls for ages. The obscene frescoes on these walls are the only most recent addition which contrary to the rest seem to increase as more of us pass by through the years. Graffiti that display history, nationality and maybe even state of mind.

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In here like an ant I rest, until the next stop, meters below the ground, I travel looking at them who in turn look back to me. No one to talk to, no one to smile to. An individualistic life, a being, a breeding host, traveling together and apart, at the same time.

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There is no one to wave to, and as I am slowly lifted to the second level towards passport control I ask myself if there is really anything to check, I pass through like an ant through Porte des bombes. The stillness in the area is unbelievable, the fluorescent tube just on top of me flashes through its intermittent behavior as if trying to survive its last moments of shine, the plants green but lifeless. The British white haired couples settled in an un-organized method on the seats remaining in the departures lounge, myself in an un-obstructed angle, anxious but calm, waiting and observing.

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