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thoughts & musings :: CCC

Tuesday, 18 October 2005

Maspalomas diary 05 - Having a Burberry good time


The tide can come in pretty fast on the beach.

I looked up from the book I was reading and judged we had about 15minutes before we need to move. A few moments later and the waves lapped up at the edge of my towel. The bloke behind me chuckled and I looked up and smiled, seeing the funny side.

We had a close escape.

Moments later, the couple along from us had a wave sweep right over their legs to their waists. They both squealed and leapt up. the bloke behind us collapsed in hysterics.

With all the walking and hiking around the dunes and back and forth from the beach to the apartments my legs are beginning to ache and hurt a lot. The sunburn does not help. Despite all the sun cream and after sun I use, I have to go through the patchy red lobster stage before any chance of anything remotely brown will appear.

There's nothing we can do about the sun and nothing we can do about the long walking. The scenery in the dunes is stunning, but, at the end of the day, like an overthrown veal farmer, my calves are killing me.

Back at the bar, I line up behind two of the other Brits. A Burberry cap on one of their heads. They talk to the bar tender loudly and slowly in English and say "Two Beers please mate."

The bar tender, a very friendly chap, replies mockingly, " I am sorry but I do not understand as I speak no English."

They laugh and awkwardly repeat the order.

Up I come next. "Hola. Uno agua y uno zumo de naranja, per favore." What I'm doing is not remotely clever. I'm just learning key sentences and repeating them parrot fashion. But I feel a gulf open up between me and the guys before me.

Seeing that rowdy tribe of typical Brit yob tourist makes me want to go even further in the opposite direction. I try and become Archetypal English Gent abroad. I try and learn some of the language and conduct myself with as much politeness and dignity as I can.

The Brit yobs make me cringe and it pushes me to try and become a dying breed, the myth of the Englishman abroad -- I don't quite wear a white suit, Panama hat and walk with a cane, but maybe one day.

The bar tender tells me he has had just about as much as he can take of German singing and asks if we haven't thought about putting up a Union Jack flag. I tell him it isn't worth it and he agrees.

We do have one Union Jack on us but Hayley probably won't let me hang her underwear from the balcony and they're so tiny they probably won't be spotted.

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