Benitatxell (España)
The first impression is never the one that lasts. Neither a bad one, nor a good one. We have arrived at a small house at the end of a street. There is only one other house next to it before the road turns into a dead end. But this one takes away a large part of the view of the sea.
It seems to be new, the façade still white. Built high. Finca style. Like almost all the houses in this residential resort, on the mountain, carved into the rocks. Architectural art. Like all art, it can evoke disgust or admiration. My inner self has already made up its mind.
The accommodation is clean, tidy and smartly furnished. The kitchen is well equipped and we find many other things that are not available in most other accommodations. A lot of things that other visitors don't value or don't value enough. But we are different.
This difference is reflected in the fact that we stay longer than most visitors. If you stay for a weekend or a few days and you are not in the accommodation most of the time anyway, you do not place the same value on what we need, as we will be living here for a whole four weeks.
This seems to be a household that has been lived in and not just one that has been put up for the sole purpose of making a quick buck. A household with a full kitchen. One with enough accessories. One even with fly screens on the windows. What a view!
It was quiet the day we arrived. It felt pleasant, like being in an oasis. The sound of the sea in the distance, otherwise you couldn't hear a thing. But in the winding and narrow streets, where we almost got lost, the signs were of disturbance, which I successfully ignored. I was too tired and exhausted.
Between all the finished houses, each of which looks slightly different, but all somehow the same in the end, lie shells. Naked, gray skeletons, next to which long cranes tower into the vast sky. It is only on this first morning, after a long night with a good night's sleep, that I realize their terror.
This is not going to be a quiet place, I fear. Loud drilling, sawing noises, hammering. All together and sometimes from many corners at the same time. This is how the morning sounds after I have had an infinitely long and yet fleeting view of the purple morning sky, in absolute silence, interrupted only by the calls of the seagulls and the sound of the water.
This place is not an oasis. It is a monster eating its way into the rock of a beautifully rugged landscape, creating habitats out of concrete and pushing nature further back. That's what man is like. But perhaps the pendulum has swung too far into the negative, and my experience is swinging towards an equilibrium where I will look at this small world in a more sober way.
I am convinced of this, but not in the first hours of this first morning. Two hearts beat in my chest, one of which brings me deep melancholy and the other great contentment. I turn carefully in the direction of contentment. A slow process that requires patience. But I arrive. In the course of the morning, when the air gets warmer and I establish a new daily routine with old rhythms, I am there.
There is the scent, that wonderful smell of the sea in the air. It's the first time that a place on our trip has felt like a vacation. I can't help but say, partly with a feeling of gentle euphoria, that I really enjoy it here for now. I consider myself lucky to have this life. After all the darkness in my life, I want to let the light in and appreciate what I have been given.
And yet anger arises in me. It's not fair that some can afford everything and others nothing. Cursed human life. Who could have forgiven me this keen sense of justice that has so little to do with people's lives? Why can't I dwell in indifference and selfishness so that all the suffering bounces off me?
Originally written in German. Translated with DeepL.com (free version)
The first impression is never the one that lasts. Neither a bad one, nor a good one. We have arrived at a small house at the end of a street. There is only one other house next to it before the road turns into a dead end. But this one takes away a large part of the view of the sea.
It seems to be new, the façade still white. Built high. Finca style. Like almost all the houses in this residential resort, on the mountain, carved into the rocks. Architectural art. Like all art, it can evoke disgust or admiration. My inner self has already made up its mind.
The accommodation is clean, tidy and smartly furnished. The kitchen is well equipped and we find many other things that are not available in most other accommodations. A lot of things that other visitors don't value or don't value enough. But we are different.
This difference is reflected in the fact that we stay longer than most visitors. If you stay for a weekend or a few days and you are not in the accommodation most of the time anyway, you do not place the same value on what we need, as we will be living here for a whole four weeks.
This seems to be a household that has been lived in and not just one that has been put up for the sole purpose of making a quick buck. A household with a full kitchen. One with enough accessories. One even with fly screens on the windows. What a view!
It was quiet the day we arrived. It felt pleasant, like being in an oasis. The sound of the sea in the distance, otherwise you couldn't hear a thing. But in the winding and narrow streets, where we almost got lost, the signs were of disturbance, which I successfully ignored. I was too tired and exhausted.
Between all the finished houses, each of which looks slightly different, but all somehow the same in the end, lie shells. Naked, gray skeletons, next to which long cranes tower into the vast sky. It is only on this first morning, after a long night with a good night's sleep, that I realize their terror.
This is not going to be a quiet place, I fear. Loud drilling, sawing noises, hammering. All together and sometimes from many corners at the same time. This is how the morning sounds after I have had an infinitely long and yet fleeting view of the purple morning sky, in absolute silence, interrupted only by the calls of the seagulls and the sound of the water.
This place is not an oasis. It is a monster eating its way into the rock of a beautifully rugged landscape, creating habitats out of concrete and pushing nature further back. That's what man is like. But perhaps the pendulum has swung too far into the negative, and my experience is swinging towards an equilibrium where I will look at this small world in a more sober way.
I am convinced of this, but not in the first hours of this first morning. Two hearts beat in my chest, one of which brings me deep melancholy and the other great contentment. I turn carefully in the direction of contentment. A slow process that requires patience. But I arrive. In the course of the morning, when the air gets warmer and I establish a new daily routine with old rhythms, I am there.
There is the scent, that wonderful smell of the sea in the air. It's the first time that a place on our trip has felt like a vacation. I can't help but say, partly with a feeling of gentle euphoria, that I really enjoy it here for now. I consider myself lucky to have this life. After all the darkness in my life, I want to let the light in and appreciate what I have been given.
And yet anger arises in me. It's not fair that some can afford everything and others nothing. Cursed human life. Who could have forgiven me this keen sense of justice that has so little to do with people's lives? Why can't I dwell in indifference and selfishness so that all the suffering bounces off me?
Originally written in German. Translated with DeepL.com (free version)