* retirado do livro “The Long, Dark, Tea-Time of Soul”, de Douglas Adams

“It can hardly be a coincidence that no language on Earth has ever produces the expression “as pretty as an airport.”. Airports are ugly. Some are very ugly. Some attain a degree of ugliness that can only be a result of a special effort. This ugliness arises because airports are full of people who are tired, cross, and have just discovered that their luggage has landed in Murmansk (Murmansk airports are the only known exception to this otherwise infallible rule).

Kate Schechter stood and doubted. All the way out of London to Heathrow she had suffered from doubt. She was not a supersticious person, or even a religious person, she was simply someone who was not at all sure she should be flying over to Norway. But she was finding it increasingly easy to believe that God, if there was a God, and if it was remotely possible that any godlike being who could order the disposition of particles at the creation of the Universe would also be insterested in directing traffic on the M4, did not want her to fly to Norway either. All the trouble with the tickets, finding a next door neighbor to look after the cat, then finding the cat so it could be looked after the next-door neighbor, the sudden leak in the roof, the missing wallet, the weather, the unexpected death of the next-door neighbor, the pregnancy of the cat, even the taxi driver – when she had eventually found a taxi – has said “Normay? And what you want to go there for?” And she hadn´t instantly said “The aurora borealis!” or “Fjords!” but had looked doubtful for a moment and bitten her lip, he had said “forget Norway, go to Tenerife.”

There was an idea…