Moment by moment the blue of the sky turned deeper, a large circular moon rising from the sea, a handful of stars piercing holes in the sky. A breeze blew up the slopes, rustling the hibiscus. The unmanned lighthouse at the tip of the pier blinked on and off with its ancient-looking light. People were slowly heading down the slope, leading donkeys as they went. Their loud conversation came closer, then faded into the distance. I silently took it all in, this foreign scene seemingly entirely natural.
(Excerpt from Sputnik Sweetheart- Haruki Murakami)
I’ve spent the past week hanging around the north coast of Spain. All of the moments, and experiences I dreamt about during the time since my last escapade from England seem to have come true.
To be honest, it’s all been pretty overwhelming. The landscape is so similar to my hometown of Byron Bay, yet the language, beaches, food and mannerisms of the locals is so far different. A common experience I’ve encountered in my short time here so far goes something like this. We’ve been subject to much scrutinity due to our number plates (which show us as being english), swam in the most glorious rivers in the most beautiful towns, and drunk a lot of shit coffee and coke. I also climbed a mountain and didn’t get that surf I was hoping for.
Anyway, I was hoping to write something interesting, but that’s not applicable at this point in time, so fuck it.