On Friday we were bored and tired again. There was no question of watching yet another DVD: we have seen so many films lately, it is becoming a joke we are not getting paid to. So, we went to the bar we used to hang out in. The stakes were low and we secretly knew we would quickly get bored. So, on our way there around midnight, we browsed shop windows.
We opened the door and I said to myself “So here is where everyone is!”, i.e. the wonderful section of Outpost youth as well as loads of foreign people like us, including some really good-looking women (Outpost ladies, dressing down can occasionally do miracles!) and that amazing black guy with the white hat (I want a hat too, now). The atmosphere was phenomenal, the music superb — we were having fun by just standing there, looking at people, drinking stout. In the meantime, we were texting friends to join us, none did.
Then friends arrived, untexted for: Maria and the Guitarist. And we had immense fun. What else to say.
The following day NewYorker took us for a ride to the other side. The weather was good. We left the Capital.
An hour later, we stopped at a cute beach, blue, green and sunny.
Then we moved towards the end of Europe, a peninsula like a foreign appendage sticking out of the body of the Outpost. So different from the (rest of the) Outpost, too. On our way there, villages would get poorer and poorer, roads progressively degrading. We stopped again, this time at a seaside chapel carved inside the rock, more of a ruin.
Yet another poor village and then, suddenly, a different place: full of maquis vegetation and trees, too; grass on the ground; a gentle landscape. Roads getting ever worse, blocked by sheep, people ever more oblivious to the existence of the (rest of the) Outpost and cars. Then, another village, the last settlement, formerly beautiful, now in abject misery, only nominally part of our great European Union, a bit like les banlieues. After that, mainly nature, truly the end of Europe, the Outpost’s outpost. Twenty kilometres through mainly unspoiled beautiful countryside, reminiscent of Provence and Crete and Dalmatia, to arrive at the Beach: by far the most amazing beach in the Outpost:
Like with Prague, pictures are understating. You cannot imagine what the place looks and feels like. People used to tell me and I wouldn’t believe them. Now I am converted.
We continued to the end of the road from there, where a crumbling monastery is, linked to Scotland by an Apostle whose relics had the peculiar habit of travelling a long way, navigating the high seas.
Another beach lay nearby, complete with Scandinavian-looking cabins
and a former watchtower of the Evil Empire, now humbly serving as a bungalow
Then we turned back. And that was just on Saturday.
On Sunday the weather was good again. We hooked up with One of the Seven and drove to Aerosol. An odd city, after all, in that it is not entirely uncharming, combining a business centre with a beach.
They have recently completed a 17 km-long footpath and cycle path across the waterfront; the Sunday being sunny, the seaside was full of people (“foreigners mainly”, commented One of the Seven). We found an immigrant street market and we shopped for clothes
Chat, fun, lunch, coffee — then merrily back home.
Listening to the White Album, which I bought today after 20 years of waiting, I am bidding you Good Night.