The life acquatic
Two weeks into this Ibizan holiday and our real life in Eindhoven is almost completely forgotten. Washed away by the little joys and little tragedies of the life at the beach.
Regulated by its own rhythms and its own rules, the life at the beach is that specific kind of life where convincing your two years old son to put on his slippers instead of socks and sport shoes to go to the sea is the top challenge of the day.
Having breakfast takes about one and half hour (also due to the breathtaking view from our terrace) and going to the supermarket for grocery shopping feels as challenging as an expedition to colonize Mars.
The head is so completely empty of meaningful thoughts that the wildest plans start to take form in it.
I have been trained to this life since I was a child at my parent's beach house. In my memory there was also a certain feeding pattern connected to it which I am trying to reproduce. With little success I am afraid if you see my attempts to feed Nora bread with Nutella when she runs away screaming that she wants watermelon and a carrot. Is there something wrong in my memory or the new generations know something that I ignore?
All in all the days pass with us moving from the bed to the table to the bed again (beach bed this time) to the water, and reverse (back to the bad, to the table and to the bed again).
The nights here in Ibiza are of course what makes the island so cool, I am afraid we only live the echo of it as they do not yet accept two years olds in the major clubs. I do not mind much, I have had my share of clubbing when it was my time. I honestly pity though those teenagers that we see when we go for our evening stroll who spend the holidays with their parents at the local resort. They also stroll around to get an ice cream with us while they should be clubbing and getting wasted till morning. How could you do this to your children, I wonder.
Regulated by its own rhythms and its own rules, the life at the beach is that specific kind of life where convincing your two years old son to put on his slippers instead of socks and sport shoes to go to the sea is the top challenge of the day.
Having breakfast takes about one and half hour (also due to the breathtaking view from our terrace) and going to the supermarket for grocery shopping feels as challenging as an expedition to colonize Mars.
The head is so completely empty of meaningful thoughts that the wildest plans start to take form in it.
- How much would that cool yacht cost? No let's not do it Oliver is still too young, it might be dangerous!
- We really have to organize that lasagne contest, let's WhatsApp Giorgia see if she wants to host it.
- Whatever happened to my sweetheart in primary school? Let's see if I can find him on Facebook.
I have been trained to this life since I was a child at my parent's beach house. In my memory there was also a certain feeding pattern connected to it which I am trying to reproduce. With little success I am afraid if you see my attempts to feed Nora bread with Nutella when she runs away screaming that she wants watermelon and a carrot. Is there something wrong in my memory or the new generations know something that I ignore?
All in all the days pass with us moving from the bed to the table to the bed again (beach bed this time) to the water, and reverse (back to the bad, to the table and to the bed again).
The nights here in Ibiza are of course what makes the island so cool, I am afraid we only live the echo of it as they do not yet accept two years olds in the major clubs. I do not mind much, I have had my share of clubbing when it was my time. I honestly pity though those teenagers that we see when we go for our evening stroll who spend the holidays with their parents at the local resort. They also stroll around to get an ice cream with us while they should be clubbing and getting wasted till morning. How could you do this to your children, I wonder.
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