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India Blues

January 20, 2014

It’s a week now since I got back from Goa. This time last Monday, I was standing on Manchester Airport station waiting for the Leeds train to open its doors. My nose was red from the freezing cold and I was jet-lagged after an eleven hour flight. I had a big bag and a little bag and I was worried about getting a good seat, somewhere I could keep an eye on my bags. I was standing a polite distance from the door, which meant that a pig with no manners was able to sidle in in front of me. Bastard, I thought. Typical Englishman.

It wouldn’t have happened in Goa. In Goa, I wouldn’t have left room for a razor blade to get in front of me. With the help of my elbows, I would have been first on the train, first to dump my bags and first to get a forward-facing table-seat by the window. If no train was at the platform, I would have been suicidally close to the edge, maybe even on the track to make my point. That’s how they do things out there.









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