Salty Rants

Uhm, Can You Not? (Beach Bitches)

I inhale the salty seaside air and lean my elbows onto the railing of the balcony. Below, as far as the eye can see, extends the marvellous Mediterranean Sea, lined by a beach with golden sand. As the sun beats down against my neck and a gentle breeze blows tendrils of hair out of my messy bun, I close my eyes and focus on the sounds that drift in and out of my ears.

Laughter, chattering, squeals of delight, waves crashing against the shore—a smile can't help but carve itself between my cheeks. The marvellous image of multicoloured umbrellas imprints itself on my mind, and I can already imagine myself lying  underneath one on a deckchair, soaking up the heat as I take a nap. Relaxation caresses my body and settles into my bones, prompting a sigh of contentment out of me. I had been waiting for months for the summer vacation, and, finally, I'm living the dream.

I open my eyes—anticipation for what is to come bubbling up— and...the view before me is gone. It's all gone.

I'm not on a balcony, and I do not have a view of the sea.

My hotel room faces another building, namely a shoe-box sized bathroom in which a 60 year old white dude is currently taking a shower. When I found out about this arrangement I hadn't hesitated to stomp back down to the receptionist and tell her my exact thoughts regarding the prospect of waking up every morning to the crack of dawn, but that stupid bitch just looked at me like I was a lunatic, checked the registry, and explained that the rest of the hotel was booked to full capacity.

"You're full. Full of shit," I wanted to say, but because one of my New Years' resolutions was to not act crazy, I held my tongue. Despite that, when I chose the room, I specified for one with the seaside view. But it's now clear to me that it was just some bullshit scheme to get a poor fool like me to get the room with the old guy across from it. It's too late now to choose another hotel, and I don't want to throw away the deposit I made on this one. I wouldn't say that the place is exactly 5 stars, but I've yet to see a cockroach scuttle around, or a hobo crawl out from underneath the bed.

I crinkle my face in disgust and pull the blinds shut, determined to not let the disturbing sight of saggy body parts ruin my first day at the beach. I turn on my heel and march over to your bed, where you're still snoring like a bear on anaesthetics. 

"Rise and shine, Rumplestiltskin!" I yell, grabbing hold of the blankets and tearing them off.

You groan something incoherently, roll over, and curl into foetal position. It wasn't exactly the reaction I was going for with my barbaric act, but I didn't come here to sleep until noon. Not with Old Man Jenkins mooning in full view of the window. Why the fuck doesn't he have drapes or something?

I pull my phone out my pocket and type in the password. The night before, I decided to download a klaxon app, just for this occasion. Being perfectly aware of your sleeping patterns (don't ask how) means that I'm perfectly aware of the fact that you won't be waking up on your own for a few more hours. Good thing helping is my middle name and busting your balls is my game.

My thumb slides the volume to the max, and I position the phone next to  your ear.

I let it rip—I admit that it makes my own heart backflip in my chest—and you almost leap three feet into the air; you start screaming bloody murder and, with your arms flailing wildly, you tumble off the bed and onto the carpeted floor. 

"You fucking bitch!" Another screech ensues, but at this point I'm too overcome with laughter to pay any heed to it. I don't even care if I woke up half of the building—that will teach 'em.