Leaves were tumbling when I took a walk around the horse field, said goodbye to Dobbin (centre photo below), jumped on a train down to the city, negotiated an eerily empty Vaclav Havel airport and 12 hours later found myself standing in the Saudi desert looking at sand. A cool breeze was blowing off the Arabian Gulf as I took an evening stroll along the corniche on which kids whizzed by on go-karts while parents enjoyed moonlit picnics on landscaped lawns.
Suffering from flight-induced insomnia, the Islamic call to prayer soothed me at 4am and finally I found sleep at the end of a long journey, contented by a patch of earth with a reverent heart, wild tendencies and a soft bed.
I'd changed planes in Dubai, one of the most plastic and avaricious spots ever visited, glad to be just passing through, with memories of my captivity earlier in the year sending a shudder down the spine. I smoked in the transit lounge, watching a dead-eyed African employee empty overflowing ashtrays and then I got the fuck out of there.
I'd changed planes in Dubai, one of the most plastic and avaricious spots ever visited, glad to be just passing through, with memories of my captivity earlier in the year sending a shudder down the spine. I smoked in the transit lounge, watching a dead-eyed African employee empty overflowing ashtrays and then I got the fuck out of there.
A week after arriving here, a neighbour back home sent morbid news of a Sunday morning stabbing and subsequent murder on the square of the little forest municipality where I live ... crossing a Saudi street suddenly felt safer than crossing an on-the-face-of-it quaint and pretty town witholding grotesque fascist undertones.