Again, it is time for an audience observation. 9am, Bremen Airport. I have already been travelling for seven hours and still have two and a half hours of waiting time ahead of me until my flight toward Memmingen leaves.

The rumble of the early morning hassle has now ceased and only every now and then suitcase-pulling individuals pass through the hall. Opposite me, there is a family of four, all disappearing behind newspapers. A few meters further, a couple is booking a last minute journey.

Suddenly, the sliding door of the main entrance open and a complete busload of elderly people comes marching in. There are at least 30 gray-haired men and woman who are now gathering in the middle of the entrance hall with small tipping steps and watch their surrounding as if they just stepped off a flying saucer.

I am truly fascinated by the group and catch myself having fallen into a state of staring trance.

The sea of white trousers at half-mast, flamingo-coloured box-shaped shirts und pastel-coloured quilted gilets transfix me without me being able to break away from the picture.

A young Indian woman jogs past with her trolley in tow.

After having pulled myself from the retirement-fascination, I have a closer look at the group.

Grinning I notice what has been clear all along: all ladies are wearing this certain type of shoe: a colour somewhere between gold, white and a slightly greyish skin-colour, all of them too small so that the toes are bulging out uncomfortably in the front. Fitting to this, ochre-coloured fully-fashioned stockings. Furthermore, the group seems to live by the motto ‘longitudinal stripes slenderise’. The few men in the group are foremost wearing sporty sandals with white socks or the also rather popular health-show with roll-over-assistance. A must-have accessory is the obligatory bad fitting sport-cap. A delectation for the youthful senses! Everyone, without exception is very much tanned and wears rings, necklaces and other jewellery – the main point is that it is a lot and shiny.

The group is being guided by a man with full beard, roundly ironed jeans and a highly important facial expression. He is wearing the mass model from the optician on his nose and directs the ladies and gentlemen through the hall to a model of the Bremen Airport which can be bathed in different-coloured lights via a control panel.

All around this panel, the mass model now gathers the army of white trousers and roll-over-assistances, the three ladies with wheeled walker are being pushed right to the front. The guide now fully-throated explains who does what at the airport and the he himself has been there already during the founding day in 1921.

For his almost 90 years of age he kept rather well, I think and ask myself whether he found a similar conservation method as Harrison Ford in Star Wars from the 1970s. Liquid kryptonite, if I remember correctly. But there is something positive about him: he has a calm voice with a typical Ruhr area accent which makes him very likeable. In order to relax the mood, Harrison asks who already has been to an airport before from the inside. Everyone is starting to crow that they have been here and there and at least been to Mallorca ten times. That must be where everyone got the fried-chicken tan from – now I know.

For a while now, a white dressed woman has caught my attention in an uncomfortable way. She is wearing a turquoise scarf and seems to be the group clown. Unceasingly, she keeps commenting and joking and the flamingo ladies and the sport cap men break down laughing, hitting their thighs in ecstasy. As I am always in for some fun, I turn my attention to her in order to maybe learn the one joke or the other. I only have to wait another brief moment and the turquoise scarf elevates under a deep breath-taking und then bloats out another comment – she just knows everything. Even before I am able to catch the point of the brief intervention, everyone dies laughing. Rather embarrassed, I look around however, no one else seems to give further attention to the group.

A small girl in blazing red sandals is running past, followed hard on by her father trying to catch the little runaway – she squeals excitedly as he spins her through the air and places her on his shoulders.

Then again, my attention shifts to the group leader or better put his drudge - a tall man with bum bag who, until now has kept quietly in the background and obviously has been waiting for his deployment. He explains the surface condition of the runway and patters some facts and figures professionally. A murmur goes through the listeners and even the group clown does not seem to have any clever comment to make. What follows, is a litany of numbers and material lists which make the airport so special. He calculates how many times you would have to link together the current runway in order for an A360 to be able to land - a theorem which puts the surrounding people into a coma-like state of trance. Gradually, the evident interest ceases and the first five ladies sit down on a nearby bench. Seated, they start frisking the back of their heads, checking whether the teased blow-dry hairstyle is still in place.

The temperatures in the small hall are soaring up to the boiling point and accordingly worn out, two men in pilot uniforms stride past, pulling their small suitcases behind them.

 

A member of the airport staff shambles around the group as I look up the next time. He is as large as a pig before the slaughter and also in other ways as well does not make a very appealing impression. His golden bracelet literally sticks to his wrist and the belt cuts of the stomach in a rather uncomfortable way. At the belt as such, a lot of trinkets are dangling which seem to be inextricably important for pure survival. Nervously, he tugs at his earring and then runs his fingers through the gelled-back hair at the same time as constantly kneading a handkerchief and rocking back and forth.

Two seats away from me, a couple of the retirement group has sat down and my point of attention shifts again. We are talking about an especially exquisite example of a sophisticated damsel. I am reminded of Ali Baba after the sesame opened and am blinded by the plentiful golden jewellery and gem stones – probably the reason for the lady to wear sunglasses. Her skirt is in the truest sense of the word held in snake print and the fingernails have a dangerous resemblance to machetes which should only be used in the rain forest. The gentleman besides her vainly tries to start a conversation with her, as she acknowledges every comment with a monotonous ‘hm’. A glance at the watch tells me that it is time to advance toward the security check and I herewith cede the stage to Harrison Ford.