After resting a week at the very same place we pack our things and drive towards our homeland. Yet the road trip is over. Golden red Autumn leaves take my breath away. But the coldness kills me. We have in mind a trip to a warmer place than Sweden.
It is late evening. Our flight to Palma de Mallorca leaves early next morning. No way we are going to stay in a terribly expensive Airport hotel.
We are prepared for a long night.
But not for a torture.
Nowhere there are warm welcoming beds. Nowhere to stretch our tired bodies, as if our economy class tour already has began. We give up and lie down on a hard bench that aches as soon as we touch it. After an hour the whole body is hurting, unregarded how often I change position.
After two hours it is nasty cold and the body gets dumb. Hands, fingers, feet shake and tremble.
Miraculously I fall asleep for half an hour or a minute, I can’t tell.
Then there is this voice, so loud as if this someone is inside my own body and tearing it apart. Yet I know it’s not me as I can’t understand a word of this language. Neither can I understand why he is sitting here with a phone when this hall is huge and empty.
Except from just here.
I get up to look at him and give him the bad eye.
I walk around the hall.
I wash my frozen hands with lukewarm water.
He is still talking on his stupid phone.
I am still freezing.
And worse of all. Time stands by.
But at two o’clock on the afternoon we enter another world and repress that horror night.
We sit outside in a lovely restaurant on the North of Mallorca and enjoy a wonderful three course lunch, cold soft drinks and caressing sunshine.
And we say so many things that I can’t remember.
But we recall the laughter in slow motion and how lucky and naive and happy we were at that time over how perfect and unspoiled everything was as it was like chapter one page one in our New Outdoor Life.
And then still overwhelmed and lucky once opening the door to our tiny little apartment on the highest floor of the apartment hotel directly on the beach and we stare at the wide view of the blue shining Mediterranean outside our balcony and we are still standing in the doorway but we look at one another with wide eyes and we are speechless.
So we consider no more this tiny one bedroom apartment in which we are bound to spend three months of our lives during the harsh Swedish winter as a claustrophobic experience.
We go out to the balcony holding hands and staring out at the endless horisont while our bags are still unpacked.
We don’t see nor hear the hundreds, maybe thousands, of tourists lying tight like ants in anthill in their desperate worship of the sun.
Yet we are gratefully naive and unspoiled.
We feel at home and haven’t been disgusted over the body of a mass touristic resort at it’s utmost and naked ugliness.
We are too blind to be true to our senses.
We are too much in love with what we believe is our new reality to be true to our senses.
PS. Smart as you are you’ve figured out that this blog relates to another period of time, October last year to be exact.