Some of the most potent scenes in novels of the 20th Century describe peactime refugees suddenly appearing on strange shores, harbingers of horrors to come.
Husband and I are currently in our erstwhile home now for sale in the tiny isolated town of Soller, Mallorca, Spain. We are doing maintenance and repair work before winter closes in, while reconnecting with old friends at favorite cafes around the plaza and art galleries and concert venues in the not too distant city of Palma,
For the first time ever we are seeing lots of young Chinese couples, often beautifully even elegantly dressed, while mostly looking sad and disconsolate as they staringly sip tea. Young Russian males came in a flood two years ago, but now have utterly vanished. There is a seven star hotel owned by the UAE near Soller, up on an isolated headland with gorgeous views. The richly limousined and elegant Arabs of past years have largely vanished, replaced by a tide of taxied fellas in business suits.
I sense privileged but precarious war fears and eonomic distress washing up on the shore.
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