Maybe birds are German. After all, they are incessantly loud. And. After all. Even though my balcony isn’t Instagram ready, it faces a park rather than a concrete void, filled with worldly possessions, and humans. ——-
My bronchitis infuriates me. But on the other hand, having brought my operational temperature to above 35C, it lends a keen sense of enjoyment to the steady ring in my ears, and the way that the ivy – that damned parasite – makes its cut-out je-ne-sais-quoi attitude – with its hipster abandoned lantern.
I came back after a month in Uganda —- and it was great. Spanish specimens in appreciation of my Siberian “blonde” azure-eyed beauty – ok, quotes here; delicious Argentinian steak grilled by a true Argentinian able to sway his hips in the right – salsa -esque— way, and best of all — wines brought over the Gibraltar, from the sundrenched hills of Spain. My colleague, Chris, used to the meekness of Vietnamese and Ukrainians, was a bit overwhelmed. I told him from the get go – no point in playing a melancholic wallflower, angling his head in demise of Whatever, be it millennial sense of entitlement, or German sense of well-deserved guilt — he has to be up there, with the rest of them, dangling the shoe off his broken foot on the terrace, dancing his way into their fickle hearts, and kissing the pillowy lips of a Somalian princess —-
even if a tall half-French-half-American-ex-special-forces-turned-luxury-hotelier (what would V Bout’s friend say to that?) picked you up, schooled you on the importance of having chilled glasses before the pouring of gin — and
most important of all, despite whatever pressure there is, appreciating your friends for who they are — the inspiration they bring you—
to keep —-
Rafa, my mustard-moustached