I’m in a foreign country

I'm in a foreign country. It's called Newcastle.

I don't know the cultures, here. I can see tribes, flagged by the women and the alcohol (the men don't seem to differ much from tribe to tribe). The main station is where they gather. 

Passion Fruit

Tinned passion fruit martinis or mojitos from Marks and Spencer. Long prosthetic eyelashes and short skirts, tottery heels and dyed blonde hair, the natural brown growing out below. Their men, hard shaved and tattooed, scrubbed Sunday faces collapsing as the alcohol takes effect. In flocks of neon crop-tops and extended, arty nails, an impending riot of colour and curves. 

Doc Marten

Or the studious Durham intellectuals, bent over their laptops, their latest paper reflected in the sensible glasses perched on their noses. Brown coat, a short tear in the knees of their jeans and Doc Marten's to show that they are not conformist. No alcohol, but a refillable bottle of water, topped up at the station tap. 

Elderly Mute

The lumpy proletariat, waddling across the platform dragging an ancient trolley-bag, bent over with years of hard labour (and osteoporosis). Dressed down in grey, brown, maybe a muted red scarf, unnoticed except by the attentive station staff. These are the people who built the social stage on which the Passion Fruit now perform. Invisible ancestors of the nail-painters. 

Then there is a religious tribe, black hats and diminished women, and a sporty tribe, but I recognise these people. They are not strangers, even if I know nothing of their lives. 

This is Newcastle at four o'clock on a Bank Holiday Sunday.