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Regular readers will know that my work requires me to make regular short visits to other places in Europe, something that I consider to be a real privilege.
I learned the hard way some years ago that I couldn’t take for granted that something that works in one European country would also work in another.
) over-estimating the time I would need to get through the various hoops of reaching my flight home.
My varied travel experiences have led to the creation of my own personal myths and prejudices in my mind about the places I visit.
The receipt is buried deep in my wallet, and so is my ticket.
So the inspector on the train accepted my invalid, two day old ticket without a second glance, it would seem. I’ve been reading a fascinating memoir at odd free moments during my trip.A human passes through the carriages to inspect the tickets, she accepts mine and defaces it with the appropriate instrument without a word in any language. At the destination, there is a machine to check my ticket again, and permit entry to the airport. I try all the well-worn methods of meeting the machine’s approval, flattening the ticket with my fingers, turning it the other way round, moving to another machine. And when I inspect the ticket, I can understand the machine’s point of view.