Thursday, July 24, 2008

Ranwick Racecourse

Theresa and I and some other New Zealanders danced that night in the racecourse to the wild Irish music of Scythian. The police watched (helpless but chuckling somewhat) as hundreds of excited young people jumped the race-course barriers to get closer to the music. Whirling shadows in the chaos of lights. Everyone slept in a field of jumbled bodies, wrapped in silver heat sheets to protect against the freezing cold. The massive fields of sleeping lumps were merely marked by each country's flags.

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