I live at the borders of the empire.
Beyond the black stump, like that old Nevill Shute novel, but without the fiery redhead that graces the old Pan paperback.
In my 900-souls village there are people that were born after the war and never was farther than 80 kilometers from the main square of this place.
The web is slow and erratic, we see seven of the few dozens digital TV channels for which we pay a stiff yearly fee, the trains don’t stop in this town and cell-phone reception is better, probably, in the depth of the basin of the Congo.
This is really the back of beyond.
All this to say that I have good excuses for having missed Marco Polo, that looks exactly like the kind of show I might love, and I should cover on Karavansara…
No, really – I completely missed this.
But of course, no Netflix hereabouts – not on a 70K copper cable connection. Continue reading