I was waiting for the flight to Graz. There were only minutes left to go when at the gate next to ours, a circle of passengers started backing away, slowly, from a Duty Free bag lying there on the floor. A broken bottle of red wine was bleeding profusely from the inside of the plastic bag. And it was a hypnotic sight to see. The honeyed, earthy smell of wine was both immediately familiar and jarring as it permeated the terminal. With surprising speed, a cleaning lady arrived, all dressed up in Schiphol blue. Heading straight for the bag. This particular cleaning lady was an elderly employee, her hair thin, her hands almost skeletal, her face exhausted. Too old, one muttered to oneself, to be working still. She slowed down as she approached the bag, suddenly frowning, and started clicking her tongue, gently, as if soothing a wounded animal.