The U2 bus from my front door to Heathrow Airport goes around all these wee windy streets but it still gets you there in about twenty-five minutes and the rest was a dawdle, except for the fact that the airport authorities were blocking one flight path to Munich and our captain had to get in touch with ground control in Frankfurt and take a sort of detour but all in all it was just hunky-dory and we got into a wet rainy Munich only about thirty minutes late or so.
On the plane I continued being engrossed in Philip Pan’s book, the one I mentioned in yesterday’s post, and it is just a pity that the people in the West who would seize on the heroic stories he is portraying, the people who would make political capital out of them, are of exactly same ilk as the red rubbish that was at the forefront of the “anti-rightest” campaign and the Cultural Revolution. Still, Lin Zhao and others do give hope that the struggle for China’s soul is not lost. One wonders, where is the West’s conscience?
The journey from the Munich Airport to Fürstenfeldbruck takes about the same time as the journey from the centre of London to Uxbridge but on drawing into the centre of Munich you notice what a provincial town Munich in fact is. Not the masses at Marienplatz that you find at either Leicester Square or People’s Square. Not the hustle and bustle of a London or Shanghai. Tomorrow I am off to the Chiropodist and I am looking forward to the couple of days at home, far from the madding crowds.
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