My name is Andrea, and traveling has always been one of my greatest passions. I have been blind since birth, but I have learned to discover the world through my other senses, which guide me in a universe made of sounds, smells, tastes, and tactile sensations. Today, I am embarking on a flight to a new destination: Barcelona. This city has always fascinated me with its vibrant culture, the scent of the sea blending with the spices in the markets, and the music that fills the streets. The reason for my trip is special: I want to attend a music festival where a dear friend of mine is performing. Music, which for me is a way to perceive the world, will be the thread that connects this experience.

The airport is the first setting of this adventure, a place that may seem impersonal and chaotic to many, but to me, it is a vibrant universe full of sensory stimuli.

As soon as I pass through the automatic doors, a gust of air conditioning brushes my face, bringing with it the scent of coffee, plastic, and metal. The constant murmur of people talking, laughing, and announcing departures and arrivals blends with the dry, rhythmic sounds of rolling trolleys on the polished floor. Every now and then, a metallic voice breaks through the steady stream of noise to announce a departing or arriving flight. There is a certain musicality in the environment, a symphony composed of hundreds of overlapping small sounds.

I orient myself using sounds and smells. I recognize the coffee shop area by the enveloping aroma of freshly ground coffee and the high-pitched laughter of people taking a break before departing. The slightly burnt smell of toasted bread guides me toward a café, while further ahead, I perceive the intense, spicy aroma of ethnic food coming from a restaurant. In the background, the vibrating hum of conveyor belts leads me toward the check-in area, where a woman with a sharp voice asks for my document. The boarding pass rustles in her hands. “Here you go,” she says, her voice carrying the formal and kind tone of someone who repeats the same phrase a hundred times a day. My sense of touch helps me: the boarding pass is rigid, with sharp corners.

After passing security, where the metallic beeping of scanners and the clinking of coins in trays fill the air, I head toward the gate with the help of an airport assistant. His fresh aftershave scent mixes with the sweet aroma of freshly baked pastries and the pungent smell of kerosene. Each step brings me closer to the moment when I will leave the ground and trust myself to the sky.

A flight attendant gently takes my arm and guides me onto the plane. “Watch the step,” she warns, as the surface beneath my feet transitions from solid and cool to a soft, warm carpet. The air inside is different: it smells of synthetic fabric, recycled air, and a faint trace of disinfectant.

The seat is narrow, with rigid armrests and slightly rough fabric. I fasten my seatbelt, feeling the cold metal between my fingers, and lean back against the seat. Around me, sounds are everywhere: the clicking of seatbelts, the murmuring of passengers, the faint whistling of the ventilation system. Then, the captain’s voice, muffled through the speakers: “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome aboard…”

The engine starts with a deep roar, a vibration rising from my feet to my chest. The plane begins to move slowly, then accelerates. The moment of takeoff is an explosion of sensations: the push against the seat, the changing consistency of the air, the hollow feeling in my stomach as we lift off the ground. The voices around me become softer, almost reverent, as the plane ascends into the sky.

Once stabilized, I can relax. The pressure in my ears normalizes after a few swallows, and the engine emits a constant hum that seems to cradle me. Someone nearby flips through a magazine—the rustling of the paper makes me imagine the glossy pages beneath their fingers. Soon after, the beverage cart arrives, and the clinking of ice cubes in plastic cups makes me crave something refreshing.

I sip an orange juice, its tangy and sweet flavor refreshing my mouth. The flight attendant passes by again, handing me a damp towelette: I rub it between my hands, the scent of lemon spreading and helping me stay alert.

Then, the pilot announces our descent. The vibrations change, becoming rougher. The air around me feels denser, as if I can sense it pressing me downward. The plane touches the ground with a gentle thud, then a firm deceleration. A spontaneous round of applause erupts among the passengers.

As I descend the stairs, a wave of warm air envelops me. I take a deep breath: I can smell the earth, gasoline, and the nearby sea. I have arrived. Even without seeing, I know that the journey has been wonderful.