London’s trains are filled with Eastern European men. Shaved heads, boots, paint stains, worn-out trowels, backpacks, mind-numbing cellphone games, and beer guts that give away their spare time.
I never see them on my way to work, only when I return: their daily journey starts while the city still slumbers.
They spend their weekdays building condos they’ll never be able to afford. Sometimes they sit on the train’s floor and snore between their arms. Or they stare at fellow passengers. They are the kind of men who smoke out of boredom.
How often do they think of their loved ones?
„How often do they think of their loved ones?”
Speaking from experience, all the time.
Aqui em SP é o mesmo. Homens do extremo leste e sul trabalham nos trens e constroem apartamentos que nunca poderão pagar, nem alojar suas famílias. Capitalismo selvagem. Abraço.