Travolators Poem by Roni Margulies

My first plane ride, how can I forget it.
We showed our tickets and exited the gate,
my grandad on one side, my mum on the other,
a blue bus came along, then left us
right beneath the wing. I was eleven.
Our destination was fixed, as was our return:
we were off to spend a week in İzmir.

The second time, six years later, I remember too,
heading away to university, ticket in hand,
out there a new world awaiting me.
Now to get to the plane from the waiting lounge
you had to pass through travolators.
As if playing hop scotch I skipped along.

When I looked out of the window
I saw behind me rows of travolators
each like a huge finger that was
pointing out something, it seemed.
What were they trying to say?
What was it I was expected to see?
I still wonder about that sometimes.

Translation: Saliha Paker and Mel Kenne