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I returned to New York after nearly two weeks in Boston, which is an astonishingly beautiful city. Each morning I would set off like Daniel Day-Lewis in the Last of the Mohicans, bounding over streams and running through endless forests, free of danger and unshackled from thoughts of tapering and vaccines, pestered only by scourges of mosquitos who, for some reason, had a predilection for African meat.

Boston is a prosperous, historical city, with the upper-classes (called Brahmins — a parody of the Indian caste system) ensconced in colonial-style mansions, shielded by expansive gardens and greenery. Being a university city, students were slowly returning for the start of the college year. Eating at a popular restaurant in Chestnut Hill on a busy Saturday afternoon, the hostess apologised that there were genuinely no waiters. They were in a transition dilemma. The cooks and barmen were there, but the summer staff had left for university and it was still too early in the season...

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