New Year story 2.
Several years ago, we went to Spain in the summer with a rather large group. in the city of Salou. We are two families with children and me and my wife without them. We managed to find a wonderful accommodation option. A multi-storey building, where apartments with a spacious kitchen-living room and a bedroom were rented quite inexpensively. The big plus was that this house had its own small fenced area and a pretty decent pool. Almost immediately, we were joined by a few more of our Bavarian friends who came from Munich in a cool hippie minibus, stuffing it with crates of Augustiner beer.
Nothing boded trouble. But she was waiting for us. The windows of my bedroom overlooked a small alley, where there was a disco, sharpened by the Dutch. It was a nightmare. Starting from 11 pm, all sorts of dark-skinned messengers from Pisa were pulled up there, who pretended to sell sunglasses. Yes. At night. It's about time. Young Netherlanders, having bought everything they needed from these merchants, began to go crazy. Screams, songs, squeals and all that stuff.
In short, it was impossible to sleep. My wife and I had to move into the living room and sleep on a sofa that was absolutely not intended for this. But this is half the trouble. To our horror, about 10 young Dutch people lived in the same house as us. On the same floor as us. And imagine: 4 am. A group of stoned inadequacies is wandering around the floor. Two of them have drums that they beat on. Some have tricky hats on their heads with pockets over their ears, into which 2 cans of beer with long pipes are inserted and they suck beer from two cans at once on the go. Their girls had "I'm a bitch" frankly written on their T-shirts.
You understand that this trip for me was the most unsuccessful for all time. Not even like that. It was the only unsuccessful trip in my entire life.
When you hear how some exalted lady, pursing her lips, will capriciously say that “The trip was not a success. There were a lot of Russians there, spit in her nasty eyes. And wish her to go to Salou in the Dutch race. I am sure that after this, the lady, finding herself in the same hotel with a company of eternally drunk, just laid back recidivists, whom the lads sent to warm up at the expense of the common fund, will perceive them as a congress of Carmelite nuns.
We were explained a couple of times to the Dutch men that it is impossible to noise at night. They told that elderly people and families with children live next to them. When this did not help, we frankly beat them. All to no avail. And what good can it be if you clobber stoned ducks, and they only laugh and squeal insanely.
We found the way out quite unexpectedly. Realizing that the Dutch only wake up at one in the afternoon, we borrowed a hefty boombox from the young Poles. By the way, the Poles also looked like real bastards, but they had the brains to make noise somewhere else. Then we asked the Dutch neighbors in sequence at 9 am, put the boombox on the railing of the balcony and played Sofochka Rotaru's song “Here the summer has passed” performed by Boni Nem.
http://www.audiopoisk.com/track/boni- nem1/mp3/vot-i-leto-pro6lo/
Well, they themselves sang along to the perky melody. The Dutch jumped like scalded. They ran out onto the balcony and asked - “What is this? Rammstein in Russian And who are you anyway? Russian rockers? ”
We answered that this is not a song by Rammstein at all, but by our singer, who was already a star at a time when their parents were not in the world. Oddly enough it helped. The stoners began to return home relatively quietly. But still, they spoiled our vacation.
One day we took a minibus from Salou to France. Exactly on the border of the two countries, there was a garbage dump near the road. We stopped, lit a cigarette and began to walk around this dump, moving every 10 seconds from Spanish to French territory and back. This gave us the right to show off in front of friends later, telling us that this year we visited France 20 times.
Our people, when they make automobile sorties to the French from the Spanish coast, usually go to the city of Perpignan. He is the closest, but frankly faceless and dull. It is better to drive a little further and get to the town of La Palma. This is where the real France is. There is absolutely old-fashioned life, cool houses and cars. And there are oyster farms.
By the way, not on this trip, but I came from Lloret de Mar to Monte Carlo. Walked there for three hours. Then I had an elegant dinner in Cannes (hamburger) and returned back to Lloret. It took 17 hours.
When we were returning to Salou late in the evening, there was some kind of accident and the electricity went out in the whole city. The nightmare began. From de-energized clubs and basement discos, the Dutch crawled out into the street. It was like a zombie apocalypse. The bastards felled tubs with trees, threw trash cans and rocked cars. A Land Rover Defender with Andorran license plates was walking in front of me about 10 meters away. So the crowd was such that I lost sight of his parking lights. Then the zombies started rocking our minibus, bludgeoning the windows and climbing onto the roof. It wasn't funny at all. It helped that we opened the windows and began to growl in the sense that we are Russians and we are psychos. And that right now we will start to crush everyone. And they started pushing. I don’t remember how we got home.
This is such an unforgettable vacation turned out. Everything would be very sad, but fate turned its good side to us. On the last day, on the way to the beach, I found a thick imposing wallet. There were about seven hundred euros, another three hundred British pounds, three credit cards and a bunch of documents. And from these documents the vile mug of a nineteen-year-old Dutchman looked at me.
I had his whole life in my hands. Documents for a car (brand new BMW), medical insurance, pin codes for credit cards (all platinum), documents from a good hotel and much more. Obviously the guy was not poor.
I'm not ashamed at all. Just not ashamed at all. We spent all his money. Had a splendid lunch. They bought ice cream for the children so that they turned blue. Because by this time the Augustiner had already run out, and they bought themselves a huge amount of the local beer "San Miguel". Because of the good mood, they even composed a poem dedicated to this situation. It began with the words "I bought Miguel before. . (a lot)". And I also bought beautiful expensive shoes for my wife.
There was a thought to send Dutch banknotes, but we moved it. They wanted to take the wallet to the owner of the hotel and shake off some more money from him, but got so drunk that they didn't go. Before leaving, I gave the wallet to the police, saying that I found it already without money. From the satisfied faces of the sergeants, I realized that they would still demand bribes from the bastard.
So. Why am I writing about this on New Year's Eve.
. I congratulate you on the upcoming holiday. I understand that this is not easy for all of us. I won't even list our problems. There are many. But I wish you all in the new year, too, as compensation for all the troubles, find your fat wallet. Or not a wallet, but something no less pleasant. We all deserve it.
