A Ride to Gatwick Airport

A Ride to Gatwick Airport

Airports. They’re so charged, so symbolic, and so empty once you’re at one; I dream of them so often.

W

e lifted up our eyes this weekend, Klement and I, and rode our bikes the 46km from Brighton to Gatwick Airport. Took three hours. It was great indeed to careen down damp paths feted by British flora, so familar and so distant. There are a lot of ferns around these parts. The closest thing to ferns in Israel is willows, their leaves also flat, but ferns are straighter, flatter, sharper.

It was a low cloudy day and gradually we saw signs of the airport. A BAA (British Airports Authority) office campus on the south side of Crawley. Then a Virgin Atlantic building, and down that street, glimpses of aircraft tails. We found a road where a handful of anoraks and a threesome of teens stood around enjoying the aircraft land and take off. The rhythm of it was so impressive: no sooner had one airplane taken off another huge lumbering machine jolted into existence slightly behind and above us. Nothing and everything, thrilling and boring both.

Further along that street in front of the runway began the airport building and a familiar yellow/orange Gatwick sign up stairs to the terminal. I’ve been seeing those Gatwick signs and fonts for over twenty years, since I was a teenager, and it was both nothing and everything to see them from a different approach, this time not arriving off an airplane and herded to passport control and the baggage carousels, but arriving free from my own back yard, carrying my vehicle up the stairs on my shoulder straight into the terminal, which after the quiet ride was an explosion of bright flourescent lighting and milling crowds of hundreds of active people.

Gatwick is my airport now. Largely unchanged since 1986, it now looks tawdry. For a while Rome’s Fiumicino was my airport, and I tried to like it, but despite the positive associations ⁠— my first trip to America back in 1987 was on Alitalia and I had an overnight stop here ⁠— it just never penetrated. Perhaps because the ride to the airport is so flat, dull and bereft. Airports. They are so charged, so symbolic ⁠— and so empty once you’re at one. I dream of them often. My feelings for Fiumicino are a microcosm of my feeling for Italy: there was nothing wrong with it, but it seemed somehow too thin, too insubstantial.

Gatwick is ugly. There is no airport I love more than Israel’s Ben-Gurion/Lod, which though awkward was also beautiful and evocative and friendly and lush. (I’m speaking of the original building, not the new Jerusalem stone setup that you can’t really get your head around beyond the impressive criss-cross corridors and the oval-shaped concourse.) Ah, the many times an Israeli goes there, the country’s only international airport, whether travelling themselves or not, at various times of day, at various times of year, and always there’s a smell not only of airline fuel but also of vegetation, trees, perfume. Like the crystal brightness of the air, the richness of the smells in Israel is something you can both take for granted and dearly love, and it’s all there at the airport. Slightly sadly though I think the new airport loses just a bit of that. it’s cut off from its surroundings by the parking lot building, now directly in front of the terminal, like so many other airports in the world. And if you’re taking the new train you don’t even need to step outdoors, so that your first smells and inhalations of Israel are when you arrive at your town. Gone too are the days of stepping off the airplane into the Israeli air and onto the wide flat buses.

And Gatwick, ugly Gatwick. The area does have its verdancy; on the ride up whenever we stopped there were blackberries aplenty to be picked and eaten. So Britain too has its wild fruit ⁠— and blackberries are much less of a pain in the fingers, head, neck cheek and breast than sabres.

Britain seems to express a unique mix of smooth new and obstinately stupid old. I bought our train tickets back to Brighton at an electronic booth with an excellent clear obvious user interface and touchscreen, with a discount for my network travelcard. Great. But to get down to the platform you have to take a flight of stairs, and this can get mighty awkward when carrying a number of suitcases. It’s the airport, and this is a main way out ⁠— why no escalator or elevators?!? And then the train itself ⁠— so new, fresh, smooth and quiet, with a strap to hold the bikes in place outside the carriage’s toilet. And the arrival back in Brighton, to its magnificent cavernous Victorian train station, still the same as it was from the days when train stations were newfangled glories and this was one of the first.

Lunch was at Wetherspoon’s at the airport, with no view out to the tarmac. But we’d witnessed airplane spectacles outside anyway among the anoraks.

It’s all part of that funny feeling of airports: that you can’t get enough and there’s nothing to have.

The Trail

Sunday, June 21st, 2026

The Software Architect Elevator: Redefining the Architect’s Role in the Digital Enterprise

Gregor Hohpe

Engaging, pleasant, timely and knowing, I was nonetheless somewhat disappointed by the thinness of this book. That said, I’m about to read his next one, Platform Strategy, which is really is the one I wanted to read.

In his Contraptions substack, Venkatesh Rao notes an obvious split that I never fully saw: thinky versus writerly writers:

Those who write to think typically resist any attempt to change the content of what they’re saying, but generally don’t care about style, verbal precision, tightening, and pragmatic cutting suggestions to hit word-count limits.

Those who write to write are typically attached to every word and comma, but can be surprisingly indifferent to substantial content edits and highly open to saying entirely different things than they originally set out to.

I must be mostly of the latter, affirmed by my not having thought enough across the decades to even note the schism.

That said, the best writing is where the thinking may be primary but the author has been an artist over the supporting form.

Wednesday, June 17th, 2026

Amit Segal, longer than usual for his It’s Noon in Israel newsletter, posits the perennial faultline in Israel politics: Jewish vs Israeli.

“Jewish” and “Israeli” are simply the two tenets of Israel’s self-definition as a Jewish and democratic state ⁠— not in open contradiction, since most Israelis hold both, but forever rubbing against each other. Like asking whether strawberry-banana yogurt is more strawberry or banana, Israelis are endlessly asked, in one disguise or another, whether they are slightly more Jewish than democratic or the reverse. Once you see it, most of the news in the country ⁠— most push notifications, most studio shouting matches ⁠— dissolves into that same question, with a thin veneer of fresh event on top.

Segal himself straddles the divide nicely, as does the society writ large, part and parcel of the fading Ashkenazi/Sephardi divide. In my thin slice of observation, secular Israelis who delight in eating swine abroad now light candles and recite more complete prayers at home for Friday night dinner than they used to ⁠— indeed holding Friday night dinner itself is the gateway. And there are so many gateways.

I do however take issue with Amit’s characterization of the Israeli/left side:

Of course we are Jewish, the left answers ⁠— the flag is essentially a prayer shawl, the emblem is the Temple menorah, every kindergartner comes home Friday with a challah ⁠— but that is the décor, not the purpose; the purpose is to be the only democracy in the Middle East.

Instead, it seems to me that people on this side, those of the “villa in the jungle” view, would rather just forget about the jungle; being “the only X in the Middle East” is merely apologetics, not identity. Rather, it’s about being a liberal democracy simply because that is the enlightened, obvious, natural thing to be; anyone with a Yiddisher kopf can see that. And as for the Right downgrading democracy to merely being the operating system, well, that’s what Judaism itself arguably is too, so being the OS is no small thing.