Disoriented by lack of sleep, Schiphol airport is a no man’s land, which sits in between departure and arrival, present and future, today and tomorrow.
It is a concrete version of the river Styx but instead of paying the boatman, you are expected to grease the palm of the duty free shops.
Everything is an illusion.
A bag replicates an iconic painting.
Plastic butterflies flit around potted plants, anchored to a flower by an invisible fishing wire.
Garish colours of wooden tulips cluster heavily in a box.
Larger than life eating utensils stand to attention in the food court and cast towering shadows.
There is only one attempt at normalcy in this sealed capsule, and it is where shelves of books stand in a quiet corner and cocoon chairs lure you with the precious promise of sleep.