they’ve chained a mug to a rad in Turing’s old hut as an anecdote prop. There’s no whiff or trace of the real about it, a simulacrum that’s seen no tide of tea or scrub-out with wartime Vim. Like much of the place, it feels new, untouched and fresh-painted. The best sights are the crumbling huts just out of view from the main drag, remnants of rusted wiring pipes and cracked paving runs, the feel of an old airbase with the last patrol long gone. I went to ask if the mug was authentic, received my shrug and nod, awkward bugger, be on your way. It was the same at Trotsky’s house in Mexico City, when I asked if the icepick pinned high on the wall over the cash desk was the murder weapon. Why ask, Gringo? Vamos. But there’s real and not real. And a great store of mystery between the two.
