Just having breakfast in the hotel/hostel restaurant. WOW. They’ve got cheese and salami and cereal and fruit and cake and coffee and tea and pots of honey and everything. It’s here, and walking around town last night, that makes me realise just how far we’ve travelled.
When I think what it was like in India and Thailand and the rest and compare it to now, to here, to Europe. Fuck. I was mesmerised just looking at the simple things last night; the grafitti on the walls, the clothes in the shops, the food on the stalls, the goths in the park, the dogs on the chain, the fashion, the haircuts, the daily grind, the tourists, the architecture, the history, the learner driver cars flying past, the fake tan and peroxide hair… everything, it all seamed just so new. So revolutionary. It was as close I could get to seeing what it’d be like to be an alien landing on earth for the first time.
I suppose I am an alien. I’m sat here in my baggy Indian pants, my dirty sleeved shirt with matted locks of tangled hair draped down from beneath my torn cap. My finger nails are black, on both index fingers I have a fungal infection and the toes you can see between my Indian flip flops are battered from spending too long in Converse. Everyone else is tailored and smart. They’re older, more sophisticated, more clean. I’m a dirty bolt in a bed of roses. When I stand to go back to the buffet they look up, fearful that I’m about to shit in their breakfast bowl. But bugger em, I’ve paid just as they have, so I’m going to sit here, drink my filtered coffee and soon go back for another bite of salami.
Then I shall do my laundry.