25 May 2011

Rotterdam, Nederland

Looking right down the barrel of the gun, held by one of my younger cousins with an all too mischievous face.

There would be no justice if I didn’t throw him in if he – “Ha ha!” he shouts, covering me in river water. I deliver justice and throw myself in as well into the cold, brown river water. It’s not so cold once you get moving, but what’s uncomfortable is the wittingly fresh taste of the water, rather than the sterility of salt water. It’s my last day in the country so I thought I may as well be stupid with it.

Following the lovely river tour there’s another game running around madly from ‘hiding spot’ to’safe spot’ without getting caught – the basis of any decent child’s game. Then, a soccer game, 2 vs. 1, where we all exhaust ourselves. I blame being on a team on my own for losing.

All the while I was slipping and sliding, bare feet, on the wood of the deck, and I think my poor feet are red and somewhat swollen from it. Ah well, all in the name of games and keeping surprisingly fit.

Málaga. I’m not sure how to pronounce it, but that’s where the plane flies with my relatively untanned self aboard. It’s arriving on the Costa del Sol, and famous for… the sun. Early summer would be nice with a functioning pair of feet; I’m in bed now with a sharp knife and tweezers in hand pulling out four times as many splinters as I’ve had in my eighteen years. Now I can say to the Spaniards that I went through the wars to get to you. In English, though, because I know as many words in Spanish as I have fingers on my tweezer holding hand.