Hands down, the best way to get lung cancer is to hang out in the smoking corner of Asian airports. Often only one or two in the entire airport, all those who indulge in the bad habit migrate to it like the Okavango Delta during mating season. Tensions rise high in airports, it is only natural given the amount of crockery that goes on in them. Like a drafted soldier who does not smoke, but does after a soul destabilizing fire fight. To quote Band of Brothers:
“I thought you didn’t smoke?”
“I don’t.”
Just have your flight delayed for the fourth time and you soon will be drawn to that sweet smell of burning Chinese tobacco. You always bum your first smoke. No one ever just up and buys a pack of cigarettes without being given one first. Self medication, a natural response to the stress of war or international air travel. Because you bum your first cigarette you feel obliged to strike up conversation with the small Chinese man who gave you your first cigarette.
‘Where are you going?’,
‘JFK’,
‘Me too.’
You are not alone in the smoking corner, I mean, you are, but not it the same way you are alone sitting in the purposely uncomfortable chairs outside of gate D16. Everyone here is self medicating with a minor substance, a substance that is OK to use in an airport, especially PVG. At PVG the smoking corner’s doors are always open, admittedly, to the detriment of every one else. But hey, it really brings people together, in droves.