Spanish storm

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“There’s going to be a big storm” maite’s friend called out to us as we departed. It was Saturday and they were having a money making brainstorming session. They asked us to bring back Australian ideas for a basque dating service. It wasn’t the brainstorming they were referring to though, although with the bright hot sunny afternoon we weren’t to know.

We were going to climb to the Christ on the hill in san sebastian. It was dripping with humidity and the air felt so close it was like hands pushing down on lungs and heads. By the time we emerged at the treeline the sky was a grey woody blanket. There was a strange woman washing herself in a drinking fountain who disappeared up some ruined staircases so we took the scenic route to the top. At the top christened a ladder on his back and an antennae on his head, I wonder if he minded. Through the ancient ruin san sebastian was framed in a halo of leaves and flowers. Despite the ominous weather rolling in the beach was still slicked with sunbathers, like a pointalist blanket.

We indulged in a last chance ice cream before the change. A band of old men was playing french music in the square. When they finished they were replaced by a gentleman we had seen before, face smeared white and black, red lips and hollow eyes who chirriped in the frighteningly high gibberish and hid amongst a table of fake heads to scare people. I wondered thatched could make money at such a game, what sort of person could he be?

We returned to our usual pinchos restaurant and the square was filled with children playing with balloons. The waiter put down the umbrellas to only minutes later have to struggle to put them up again against the first drops of rain. The wind was less of a hindrance than his own inability to understand that another umbrella was preventing it’s ascent. He struggled on and didn’t notice our pointing to the encumbrance.

When we returned the storm started in ernest, lighting flashing over the hills. The brainstorming session had formulated into “the slowest speed dating in the world” a train trip for singles on a Spanish train infamous for its tedious pace. They were in high spirits explaining their plan, but by the time we went to bed had lost faith on its money making appeal.

Sleep was hard to find that night amongst the thundering and that humid heat. I counted town clock struck nearly every mocking hour and most half hours. In the morning we had to rise at 6, it was going to be a long day.


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