Not roses so much as a few lingering blackberries.
Three months ago this here Garden City's sprawling pseudo-suburbs felt about as estranged as the Sundurbans.
Glass buildings and blue skies.
And the refined romance of parking lots.
Even graffiti seemed foreign to me.
A world that emanates from the centripetal force that is Douglas.
It was taking pleasure in free piles and ungoverned plant growth.
Stadium swatches;
geometrical shapes;
flirtatious run-ins across the water with the big city.
It's been three months.
Three months on the sub-continent and I was heading up to some commercial stronghold in the Punjab to see a classical music festival at a Hindu temple where ragas wafted until daybreak.
Now I've got my records to hibernate in this slanted floating cavern.
A swift little breeze, that was.
