Seven Days Spain (3)
Is there anything more wonderful than a benefit, refreshing shower? Sure, but when youīre completely drenched in sweat and the rags are sticky and glued to your body in this unpleasant way. Then you donīt go for too much else, you only look forward to nothing but a shower. And only after the shower youīll actually look forward to eat, especially when it turns out to be utterly delicious. Itīs two, weīre as stuffed as we can be and the exploration of the hotel complex is now the next on the plan. We assert that all and everything is directly located next to the rocky coast. We learn Karl-Heinz has his room directly next to us. And we find out that the silly cow Mrs. Sackmann, probably one of the hottest tourist guides on the whole island, will arrive for personal consultations around 11 a.m. tomorrow at the hotel. And here thereīs only one animator, and this one is called Toshiba. That one is Japanese and he speaks fluent Spanish, German, English and what do I know all. It always depends on which channel you switch on. On Wednesday, his LCDs show us the Champions League-Semifinal match Chelsea against Barcelona, highly expected amongst all soccer fans. On Sunday thereīs Formula One. Chelsea, that isnīt only the name of the daughter of uncle Bill, but thatīs an English soccer club, thatīs a thing, Iīm really sure of. Probably, the daughter of the former U.S. president was once begotten in this western district of London. Later attempts by Bill, to beget another child, completely failed due to the more than functioning contraceptives, used by Hillary. And the more than functioning contraceptives used by his interns. Soccer, yes, soccer, that was invented in England. What all else was ever invented on this island? Well I donīt exactly know. Maybe riding instructor? I know the English. In the year 2006 the soccer world championship was in Germany. The English supporters sat in prides with naked upper parts of their bodies in the beer gardens and did nothing but hassle all staff and passerbyīs. They drank beer out of big mugs and for the fun of it; they mutually poured it all over their heads. Thatīs something, they actually learned from German tourists in Majorca. Instead of paying the bills, they rather smashed up the inventory, tables and chairs, and try to fuck off, faster than any cops called trying to arrest them. They must have really learned that from Disaster Detlef. Car races donīt interest me much, I was already more than done with the taxi drive to the airport. Nowadays humans do amuse themselves in front of the TV screen to death. A lot of what is shown, I donīt think to be funny. One thing I really absolutely donīt go for at all, intelligent people, that try to be funny on TV, and really does nothing but present them as idiots. Not only have I seemed to be totally enthusiastic about this great hotel complex. "Hey, magic mouse, Iīve got a little idea. Shall we ask the tour guide, whether we can just keep our room? The complex here isnīt anything but great, has a far better place than the one in Ratjada. And this chuff Karl-Heinz is so amusing and entertaining. I was already scared; we would end up trying hard to enjoy some dark, depressive dump with the charming view onto some stinky backyard. And we have the ocean view here, that we would have to miss out in Cala Ratjada. In this flophouse, the first impression wasnīt too good anyway and this coati mundi of a hotel manager had definitely the charm of some old warden." "Yes, it sounds good to me. It isnīt at all clear to me either why this dump in Cala Ratjada was rated that high?" "Probably via manipulations. You can find all those PR-Agencies, that are specialized in rating dumps that positive, simply to attack holiday makers and to escalate the top line. But the negative ratings are much more interesting for anyone, searching for real information about any hotel." "Iīve never though about that," I mumbled. "I really think it to be super here, mighty mouse, and the food is great. Letīs try to stay here?" "Yes!" We leave the hotel to take some close looks at the particular scenery. And suddenly, ooops! Whoīs that brilliant guy? Heīs wearing his red shirt open, and right over his deep placed black Capri trousers, his buff upper part of the body is more than highly visible. Wooooow - sexy! His skin is slightly brown and on his left upper arm he has tattooed a black rose. My panties melt ... "Ey, he looks like Bruce Willis in the year of 1990," Dieter says to me. "Indeed, hard to believe." "Yes " I shortly add and Iīm not able to add any more. Iīm bamboozled. Dieter doesnīt like this actor. Heīs jealous, because in the end of the movie The Whole Nine Yards Bruce Willis may deeply shove his tongue into the throat of the dental assistant and contract killer Jill, played by Amanda Peet. Dieterīs favorite actresses do all start with an A: Amanda Peet, Andie MacDowell, Anna Heche and the hottest actress for him is eternally Anne Hathaway. With me, by the way, itīs the other way around, my forename ends with A. Whenever getting any glimpse of Anna Hathaway, the adipose cholesterol heart of Dieter starts to hammer wildly. He thinks, thatīs roughly alike, as if Osama Bin Laden does his morning prayer to Allah in front of the gates of Mecca and someone would fly the star-spangled banner in the Holy City. Nothing to be done against that at this very moment. The guy is passing by and I shortly turn around, to see, whether the handsome guy that could plain pass as the younger clone of Bruce Willis, enters our hotel. No, he isnīt. Heīs marching straight onwards. The only thing, Iīd kill without batting an eye, would be a date with Bruce Willis. The real one of course. May 5, 2009 - 7:30 p.m. The dinning-hall is already open for half an hour, but we are still in our room. I can still not really decide which rags Iīd like to wear for dinner. Finally I found my dress, that I can wear and show myself off in the bar later, too. Thatīd where weīll be heading to. In the dining-hall, Karl-Heinz is waving at us and we take him up on his offer, to join his table and company. The buffet is screaming for crapulence. Gluttony back - Gluttony forth. Who cares, we appreciate this capital sin, and we are on holiday. Dieter is torn back and forth from the culinary joys and is talking big. "When weīre back home, my honey pie, then Iīll treat you with handmade home-style paella." An enormously ambitious project for someone that most of the time feeds himself via instant meals, heated up with the help of some microwave. We have some chats with Karl-Heinz, whose tendency to exaggerations amuses us completely. After the extended meal, we decide to conquer the bar. May 5, 2009 - 9.45 p.m. "Itīs my turn to shout," Dieter gags. Because most of the drinks are for free, anyway. "Hey Karl-Heinz, manage another beer?" Our new friend answers most of the time with Barack Obamaīs parole "Yes we can!" Both men order choir style three beers that promptly arrive freshly tongued. About a dozen vacationers, conquering the bar along with us, are definitely finding themselves in different states of drunkenness, but seem to all come from Germany. Beer number how much I gobble down right now, I donīt know, but it will be surely one of the last ones. To stay sober here, is more than difficult, because all others try nothing but to exactly permanently avoid that. Alcohol here seems to serve as some kind of a social lubricant. A man dressed up in some white summer suit, a hat on the head and a woman at his side, approaches us. Heīs wearing a wide open buttoned Shorty that shows off a golden chain. The lady seemed to be already pretty drunk. I guess she is in her mid thirties, some 20 years younger than her companion. Sheīs wearing a short white skirt, along with some black top, danger of flight for her tits included. Not to observe her tits, seems thus to be of a certain difficulty. Dieter and Karl-Heinz seem to appreciate. "Good evening. Has anybody already tried the Prosecco?" weīre asked by the man. No, not all of them come from Germany; my hypersensitive little ears have just recognized some Austrian dialect. "Prosecco, I did stop to consummate that one, when I started with puberty," answers Karl-Heinz. My Dieter alike did recognize the dialect and gets curious. "Youīre from Austria, right?" "Iīm from Vienna, sheīs from Tirol." "Iīm from ... hic Imsterberg hic ," prattles the lady and sits down on some bar stool. "Youīre drunk and we going to sleep soon," orders the guy. "Iīm noooooooooot drunk hic at all," prattles she on and makes a heavy pout. The contents of her handbag, a potpourri from coins, honked paper towels, cosmetic and pencils, she pours them all over the counter and distorts her face in disbelief. "Where are hic the cig ... hic cigarettes?" "Iīve already pocketed them for you." The man in the white suit is fishing a pack out of his jacket and hands her a butt over. When lighting it for her, the cigarette falls out of the corner of her mouth, landing safely on her skirt. But before itīs rolling down, it manages nevertheless to burn a circular hole in the fabric. "Where does this Schwarzenegger come from?" asks Dieter. "He comes from the Steiermark, there, where Graz lies," explains the man from the land of hills and vallies. Karl-Heinz canīt keep calm. "My body is a wonder of nature. While Arnieīs body is nothing better if at all a wonder of anabolic." "Cómico!" The Austrian goes, who obviously doesnīt go for someone making jokes about his fellow countryman. Karl-Heinz feels obviously challenged. "Cómico? Hey, the Viennese can speak Spanish. Then please tell me, what handcuffs are in Spanish?" "Handcuffs in Spanish? No idea." The Austrian goes, and shortly shakes his head. I think, Disaster Detlef could have answered this question easily. Once he was caught riding some stolen Kawasaki in Catalonia, dashing through the villages at the Costa Brava. "Esposas." "Esposa means wife and esposas are thus of course the wives," explains the Austrian. "Right as well," agrees Karl-Heinz. "Itīs like a game of little teapot, guessing homo nominals. Look, a nun with a bad habit doesnīt wear anything under her habit." Again, we did learn something with our emcee Karl-Heinz. Man, this really turns out to be an educational vacation here, we should defiantly claim this voyage against tax liability. The Austrian orders two Proseccos, while his drunk female companion is more than enchanted, that Majorca would be after Cyprus the most beautiful of all Italian islands, definitely! Then he begins to explain. "Here in Spain a marriage is voted to be successful already, when it isnīt divorced. Divorces are the norm here." Karl-Heinz states amused and means. "This seems to be a national sport. In Greece itīs the tax fraud and in Spain the divorce." The man continues. "The fiery Spaniard and the fiery Spanish lady arenīt made for any longer termed relationship. Nearly three of all four marriages are being divorced immediately again." The gentleman from Austria seems to know quite something about marriage, the cheerful grave of all love. My father always made me it clear to me that many humans arenīt really aware that the institution marriage is nothing but an invention by God, of course, as one is speaking here about the holy alliance. When both partners have a close relationship with their creator, then this is cementing their pact and no one can destroy this marriage. Otherwise one has to face the real existing danger, that sin does break the relationship and is shattering the marriage, thus causing it to break up sooner or later. The basic problem wouldnīt be exactly the age of the involved married couple, because nowadays so many marry young, but the ripening of the believe in God, who will sooner or later put this bondage to the test. "Do I hear here a big interest in divorce?" Karl-Heinz asks the Austrian. "Rather. I myself am divorced already two times. And I can remember my first marriage well. A bunch of people, that all wanted to get pissed drunk at my cost. I was handling that in some more intelligent way the next time, we were married secretly." "And the lady is the new candidate? All good things come in threes, as we all know." Karl-Heinz is hunting for details, as he seems to be clearly interested in the drunken wife. "Sheīs my girlfriend, of course. But the one who lost two times that much money in some war of divorce, then one has defiantly lost all interest in any marriage," states the Austrian. The barkeeper serves the two ordered Proseccos and the Austrian brings out some toast. His beloved is fluctuating her glass heavily. She doesnīt seem to notice, that a gush splashes onto her skirt. "So," the Austrian claims, after having finished his glass, "now we go to sleep." "I stay here and Iīm .. hic no sheep!" She doesnīt seem to be blessed with any too fast powers of apprehension. But no wonder, with that load of high percentage happiness flooding in her veins. The couple from Austria starts to depart. While leaving the bar, the woman manages to bring out some kind of "Iīm not dru..." to then shortly after that send some part of her stomach contents out. Again a short while afar that everything is cleaned up again by the staff. This man has a good chance now, to become staff of the month in this hotel. "That chick wasnīt too bad, hmm?" asks Karl-Heinz. "That cleavage wasnīt too bad," adds Dieter. "Bad was her condition." I misled add very seriously and think additionally, that men in general are ready to tolerate much too much, when the view compensates. And even when this includes ravines of dumbness, that one canīt at all dispose, this seems to be of no further handicap for the male cock. "Oh man, was that lady loaded." Dieter takes another draft and philosophies on. "Iīm not drunk. That sounded so more than believable than, as believable as any of the Rolling Stones swearing, that they never took any drugs in their lives. Man, she wasnīt even able to stand straight." "With me, everything always stands as straight as it should. Believe me, I swear to high heaven, everything always stands as straight as it should," confesses Karl-Heinz. "Iīm only lacking a woman, to actually prove it." A blonde woman, mid forties with thick glasses on her nose is joining in. She seems to be a little bit uncongenial and starts preaching. "Watch out, here I come. Men often brag with their potency, as if they could make half Tokyo collapse with their cock, but completely fail in bed. A blowhard with some flabby dick is more or less like a fat wallet, which is only full of small money, loads of coins. One canīt buy much with it and it doesnīt last. And then something else. To get a woman into bed, every man will turn politician, who wants to win an election and promises her everything. I think, this male crowns of creation are driven by some kind of brainless, pulsing motor, that I wouldnīt ever suck with my chubby lips foe one second." Could she be a lesbian? "As you happen to mention money ..." Karl-Heinz is sipping his glass, throws a glance at the blonde and continues: "Does anyone know a good bank, where I can borrow some dough, to become debt free? Could anybody lend me 5000 euro? This would be the beginning of a wonderful friendship!" says Karl-Heinz. Then he turns to the blonde. "Whatīs your name?" "Why do you want to know?" "Because Iīve got a riddle for you." "Oskay, Rosemarie." "Hi, my name is Polanski and where is your baby? Listen, if you guess my real surname, youīll get a kiss from me." "Ick-ick-ick! Maybe motherfucker?" "Not really, but youīve won anyway, I bend the rules. Come close to me, my dear." In shock the blonde is spilling her Vino Tinto all over her light blue top. "Great way to do it!" Karl-Heinz more than obviously amused. "For heavenīs sake, it was only red vine and no water!" "Hey!" beefs the shrew, "got some more stupid remarks!?" "Hey, it was only meant ironically," excuses Karl-Heinz himself with some grin on his face. "An ironic commentary is nothing but a smilingly recited insult," states the blonde dragon seriously. "But only for people that donīt have any sense of humor," philosophized Dieter and heīs 100 percent sure thatīs right. "Fellow, youīre all nothing but pissed drunk, man," the lady with the wet top rages. "Not you, but weīre all pissed drunk." Karl-Heinz is correcting. Dieter adjusts: "Yeah, WE are all ...! Self-awareness is the first step for any betterment." "Luckily Iīm going to depart tomorrow!" hisses Luciferīs bride. "And whereīll we travel to?" asks Karl-Heinz. "New York? - Rio? - Tokyo?" "Screw you! Better a glass in the hand, than a twerp like you in bed!" she spits out sharp, throwing angry looks at Karl-Heinz. Then the offspring of Satan is taken off to her heels, but before collides with our friend, in such a manner, that the rest of her vine now colors Karl-Heinzīs trousers smack red. She didnīt do it on purpose, but the shrink in me knows, how the subconscious does work. "Whoops, any other hobbies, party pooper?" Karl-Heinz wants to know. "Buffon!" "Adios, my snake in the grass. Hey, wait a sec! May I be your bugger?" Iīm not risking one further beer. I tell shortly the phrase-mongers Bye-bye and leave the bar, towards elevator. When I press the button, I can still hear the whole mob boohooing at the counter "Yes we can!" This reminds me of the last night. After Dieter and I slept together in the evening for the first time, I rested my head, laying it down on his chest. He played with my long hair and right after he put his hand under my chin, to kiss me. And to ask me then: "Manage another round?" Without expecting any answer of mine, he proudly state "Yes we can!" And on he went, everything else but exiguous genital qualities, let me just say. This went on for several times this "Yes we can!" - "Yes we can!" - "Yes we can!" Meanwhile, I was sure, that this question didnīt even relate to me at all, but was plainly addressing his cock. His best piece seemed to a more than a happening substitute for some turbo-fantastic-ultra-friggin sports car, which he doesnīt need at all. Push, Iīm dog-tired. The distress of the day is wearing me out. The getting up early, the eddying night before, the way too much alcohol. I slowly get undressed. On my bed, still some chaotic amount of tops, skirts and trousers, I threw them onto, before I found myself this eveningīs winning outfit. I throw the rags into the shelf and me into my bed. I can hear steps in the corridor. And voices. Dieter and Karl-Heinz seem to say good-bye to each other. Yes, exactly, the door opens and my darling lover is there, but he immediately vanishes into the toilet. The next room I can hear, how Karl-Heinz palters into his. Rather clairaudient, this here. But for some south European standards still pretty normal. I can hear, how Karl-Heinz passes gas or was it my friend? I can hear how Karl-Heinz has his TV going. I just hope that Dieter doesnīt suddenly come up with the idea, to start something up with me. I really need sleep. In case he would start to fumble, I would directly cancel his procuration. May 6, 2009 - 9:10 a.m. No complaints about the breakfast, only Dieter is grumbling, the coffee taste awful. Nevertheless, he drinks and it inspires and his mood just appears to become a little better after the third one. Along the way, heīs testing, whether he would be able to manage some seven eggs, supposedly good for the potency. Supposed to save one from having blackouts while lust and love. Itīs alright with me. Allegedly, the self-burned liquor of my grandpa was supposed to have the same effect. Gramps was always sure, that his self-distilled licorice schnapps would do nothing else but increase each and any potency, to sharpen the senses and to make sure of a healthy action of the bowels. My granny stated, only the last to be true, actually. Nevertheless, my grandpa always tried some new tricks, till he had the optimized result. Better to test than to study and more fun to self make than to buy.
Copyright © 2011 Elvira Frankenheim |