Radio Ramadan

As I disembarked the long train journey from Truro, Cornwall to civilization  (otherwise known as Bristol, population 500,000) I admired the european architecture of the train station and the Harry Potterisk ambiance. For some strange reason as I exited the station onto the street with my bags in tow, I half expected there to be a mob of people, dressed in dish dashes and aggressively saying "taxi madame" in my face while ignoring my personal space.

To my disappointment what I found was a dark, wet, quiet street where taxi cabs were lined up in an orderly fashion, waiting for their next fare.

As I approached the passenger side window the driver rolled the window down. Startled by the dark man in the drivers seat, I briefly hesitated. When was the last time I saw a non-white person? August 15th, at JFK airport in New York, before moving to Cornwall, that's when.

"The Clifton Hotel?" I said, hesitatingly. 

The driver obviously sensed my hesitation. "yes" he replied.

As I walked to the back of the cab to give the driver my bags, I thought, "what's happening to me? Since when I am startled by non-white people?"

As we left the station the driver turned the radio on. "Radio Ramadan" read on the digital screen. A familiar Arabic tune blared through the car. 

"music to my ears" I thought. It felt so comfortable to hear the music I used to hear almost daily in Oman yet never thought twice about. It's been months since I've heard it, and in a way it made me homesick. I breathed a sigh of relief. I felt like I was home.