Haputale evening

Fran has been here already 2 hours while I have been waiting upstairs.

We are in a quandary about how to do dinner. It’s after 7 and it’s raining and the cloud is low. The town is a misty blur with some stores still open, especially the wine shops. Little dives with fridges full of super strength beers and shelves of arrack. The one we went into has a small partitioned off area where men, it’s all men, can drink I observed. Our beers are wrapped in newspaper. We mange to eat at a Muslim curry stall, but all that is left is fried rice. Fran insists on going to the bar with the bright signage, the high cliffs resort. The entrance isn’t obvious and we have to be guided in. The atmosphere to begin with is a little word. Fran the only female. It feels brown, dated. Fran of course wants a bottle of wine. We discover gamini, the batman has never opened a bottle of wine before. It takes 15 minutes to pull the cork and everyone in the bar gives it a go. The locals are civil and friendly and gamini warms to us, taking his photo endears us to him and he gives us mangoes to take home.


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