its been 3 days without internet or wi fi… complete lap top avoidance  … tons of swimmin’ … the atlantic behaving more warmly welcoming then the mediterranean done so many days ago.

i think everyone is about as satisfied as they can ever be, which is never a perfect harmony in familied sojourns. but we get close on occasion .. breaking up the kids fights on others .. and deal with the differences with the way these parents brains work

we all do as much of nothing as possible … but nothing seems to have a mind of its own

the kids plunk inside a giant plastic bubble on the pool which makes more sense when coinciding with poolside happy hour and sangria.

later .. . we take a bus to town.

for dinner, we aim to investigate the town of rota.. a little clump of old trumpled clim clans of housing and it serves us to adore it. we even find the tiny acampada they have there too. its that tome of day when we all almost lose it. mom is cranky. dad is cranky. kids are kids and vexing. just the attempt to find me a pair of jeans is a point of depression and breakdown. i cannot comprehend 110 euros (140 bucks) for levi’s. my woman is upset with me about the whole thing. forget it. doesn’t matter. and the shops all close around us like we’re the plague.

we walk slightly wobbled from the last strains of holiday and tour aftermath. nowhere in particular, but towards the ocean anyway.

then joan shows up.

he finds us in rota. . . and the mood gets great.

wanted to buy an acampada t-shirt, nice and ugly yellow color, for my eldest daughter not with us this trip, and to lend support the cause. but no. the old woman sitting there says they’re all spoken for. but does steer us to a fish restaurant nearby. it’s already after 10:00.

we amble off happy. as we turn  down the little alley where we will eat, a weird little clothes shop is still open and i walk away with a 35 euro pair of Spanish jeans i’ve never heard of and a local belt. it serves as an omen to turn the day around. we then walk the narrow corridor lined with funky tiny restaurants with a couple plastic tables out front of each. we find the one the old woman recommended but instead let the owner of one next to it talk us into his instead. por que no ? and it’s a good fit. dinner is about perfect for the likes of us. some mysterious fish done up fine and good wine. all cheap. the kids even get something they like. and then we talk with the old guy who owns it. used to be a football (soccer) player back in ’66. so he’s got some stories and some good advice for my son who continues to juggle (as in bounce his soccer ball up in the air off his foot repeatedly).

just as we’re finally pushing off, a few young folks walk by wearing those yellow acampada t-shirts and are tickled to sell us one. viva la revolution.

then joan drives us back.

tonight ends like this:

me and joan talk about it all till the wee hours of 2:AM or so. the entire tour unfolds with all its ramifications and adventures. like when a life plays out in front of a dying man’s eyes, the tour plays out before its laid to rest now. we set out there on the stone steps that pile unto the beach that fall out of this hotel and tumble into the atlantic.

a full moon lights up a vast spans of sea. the notion of it is staggering.

while going through it all and sipping the end of the vine squeezings

a noise is heard and at first ignored .. till a second time .. then a third

its close to the edge of the surf

must be a dolphin

then a robust splash that seems to insult the rhythm of the surf.

a dolphin is in the hood

and its voice is understood

by anyone who thinks that ‘s what it is.

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