A stop in Castilla la Mancha

It's 4am. The bus is parked up in a service station. The cafeteria area smells faintly of sick. The man who's been sitting next to me on the bus may well be Ethiopian or Somali - he looks like he's from that bit of Africa but as he speaks neither English nor Castilian I'll never know. There are Moroccans too - lots of Moroccans and South Americans, mainly Ecuadorians. In Albacete a man with henna in his beard, one of those long shirts and the obligatory nylon anorak got off. A few Spaniards too. No one looks rich. In fact most look definitely poor. Like the plump woman in the tight ski pants, high heels and with yellow accessories. It screams market stall. Four continents at least - Continental drift. And I'm there too, a mileurista - the struggling poor. At 4am on a bus to Madrid.