This place is royal. The apartment’s kind of huge. The floors in the entire damn thing are marble, 2 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms, big ass kitchen, laundry room, hallway and a spacious living room with a dining table. Stretched balcony with both lounge and dinner area. And, and this thrilled my mom beyond all, Dutch television. Standing on the balcony we’re looking over an immensely disproportionate pool area and a crap load of palm trees. Look to the left and there’s mountains framing the horizon. To the right, beach and sea.
This is where I take a moment to think of all you Dutch fuckers in your raincoats, mascara running emo trails down your cheeks and your furcoats smelling of wet dog, reading this on your mobile and damning me to hell. Again.
Best thing of all, we have no plans. We have no urge for cultural stuff, no forced or guilt trips because we’re not visiting some random museum we have no interest in but it’s near so lets-do-this-and-we’re-forgiven stuff. I’m here to sit back and acedia the hell out of this place. Which is essentially what I do back at home but now it’s on the beach or at the pool, which puts things in an entirely other perspective.
This place feels like a millionaire’s old people home, though. Mom and I are suspect seeing as we made our big entrance to the grounds by trying to break into an apparently Spanish couple’s apartment, thinking it was ours. Wrong block. Whilst doing this we woke up the neighbours, and I in turn suspected the man of being an old rockstar who’s had enough of stagepussy and has settled down with his female kenau tourmanager, who probably goes by the name of Cynthia. He sounded like a Brit version of Ozzy Osbourne, walked around in satin housepants with a satin robe to match and had a dog that was more than half his size. If he hadn’t found me leaning against his frontdoor half sprawled across the floor in tattered garments I’d probably have tried to make friends with him. I saw him in the supermarket today and I still wish I had, he and I would have been the bestest of buds.
There’s this lady by the pool. After mom’s woken me and I’ve crawled out of bed, munched on some breakfast and have made my way to my usual sunbed, she usually pops up thirty minutes later at most. She’s like, fifty or some shit, but has a rather good figure and is exceptionally keen on showing this to me for some reason I can’t quite fathom. Out of all the free beds in the immensely big pool area she always takes the one next to me. I’m like, what.
So I got up and toe’d the water, checking the temperature. Deciding it was hella cold and my cohones hadn’t made their appearance as of yet, I went back to my sun bed and continued reading some stupid book I picked up at the aeroporte.
She gets up, jumps in the water. Gets out right in front of me, shakes her hair and sashays back to her sunbed. I’m like, what.
I continue reading.
Having forgotten about this incident I decide an hour later that my balls have shown themselves finally and I’m getting pretty damn hot in all the wrong ways. I get up and dive into the pool. I do some laps, cool down, chill around a bit in the water. Literally. I get out. Sit back down.
She gets up and dives into the water this time. Or well, apparently she can’t dive for shit. Her husband or whatever it is appears a few minutes later and starts explaining her how to dive.
I gigglesnorted, repeatedly.
This has been going on for 3 days straight now. I’m thinking I somehow got involved in some competitive oestrogene battle with an old lady who probably doesn’t bleed anymore. How did this happen. Why am I.. What am.. How?
Other things I do here. I go on frantic cigarette quests seeing as they’ve decided it a good idea to close down all the nearest town’s center shops, including the tobacco one. My half year experience of living in Barcelona has made it clear to me that getting ciggs here is a royal pain in the commoner’s ass. There’s tobacco shops and the occasional bar/restaurant to get ‘em. But hey, it’s a 3 day festival in San Pedro and nobody needs cigarettes anyway except for stupid foreigners seeing as we all buy in bulk! Hurray!
So there I was, not having smoked for two days. In the end I ran into some old fart who was smoking and trying to manouvre his walking stick at the same time only to mis-poke the pavement causing him to topple over. The pavement here is rather serious business. Luckily me in all my superhero glory was there to catch the poor guy and he thanked me with a toothless smile. It made my day, but what with me all film-noir-woman depraved I longingly stared at his cigarette upon which he was so kind to offer me one. I accepted and told him I didn’t know where to get my own, upon which he magically conjured a pack out of his breast pocket and told me I could buy it, he had another one. Eyeing his non-bulked slim dress pants and white linen shirt I thought better of asking where he hid’ em. Point is, here I am smoking Malboro.
Nyyyyaaaarghnnnhhhn.
To be continued.
jerk.
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