The airport, to some, can be a fairly confusing place. How are people shaped by this rather unique environment? How do airports control movement, and how do they balance our demands for safety while constructing a space which ensures some feeling of privacy? I direct readers to take a look at Ventriloquism, where Duncan provides great insight into the relationship between people and place, this time focusing on the airport.

One thing in particular digs at me. Regarding lighting, I always found it odd that airports resort to indirect lighting which illuminates rooms in such a way that makes any given point in any given day indistinguishable from any other. They flood rooms such that shadows are absent and exposure is distributed without any relevance to one's geographical position in a room or the actual time of day. This seems surprising, considering the dominion

So, don't you find it odd that a space which is so dependent on clock-based efficiency would create an environment that is essentially timeless? Lighting not only disrupts one's sense of position but also of time in such a way that can have profound effects on the way a person functions biologically and psychologically. In Athens, I spent a night at the airport in a room void of natural light, something that many rooms in this particular airport lacked. If you've ever done something like this, it has a profound effect on how the body operates the rest of the day (that is, it doesn't). By manipulating the body's exposure to light at odd intervals, you can greatly disrupt sleep-wake cycles (genetic studies done with flies and mice confirm the biological clock factor). Sleeping directly under artificial light takes a noticeable toll on the body as it tries to accommodate its need for sleep and the environmentally induced desire to stay awake.

I know, I know. Nobody is really supposed to sleep in airports; they are, as Duncan mentions, for movement and efficiency, which are antithetical to the act of sleeping. However, if you happen to fall asleep and don't know for how long, nothing other than a dizzying configuration of monitors can give you any insight into WHEN you are (such was the case at Heathrow where I narrowly made my flight). In that respect, airports seem to be a vacuum of space. Goods are duty-free, it has no time, and as Duncan deftly observes, subtle variation in spatial configuration confuses feelings of geometrical position within it. Although it is your gateway to anywhere, the airport is nowhere, such that a person awaiting a flight in Barajas (Madrid) could feel as if they were flying out of LaGuardia (New York). Time reinforces that notion of nowhere, since time-zone differences become irrelevant when inside the airport it's zero hour regardless.

I have no conclusion, it merely reflect on the observations of another and try to answer the various questions that those observations induce. I must say, turning off this light in my bedroom at 3:30AM, I'm just happy that my home is somewhere.