You walk two kilometres to the gate. The gate changes. You walk back. On the way back you pass a shop selling a pillow for ninety pounds, a sandwich for fourteen, and a bottle of water that costs more than the water you were made to throw away at security because it was a liquid, which it still is.
The seats at the gate are bolted together with armrests so that nobody can lie down, because lying down in an airport is apparently a moral failing. There are four plug sockets for three hundred people and two of them are broken and one is being used by a man charging a drone.
And then they board by group, and you are group nine, and group nine is boarded last, after the plane has already filled every overhead locker, so your bag goes in the hold, and you will see it again in a different country, if at all.
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