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I can feel it All come down
Aug. 23rd, 2003 03:17 pmSaturday is the big day: searches for food and charcoal, preparations of a giant salad in a bucket, those special clothes taken out of the suitcase; there will be a party at night.
What we did during the day doesn't really matter... we didn't stray far from Tina and Glenn's apartment. I eat left overs of the garlic bread toasts, feel the warm buzz propelling me through the day. At one point, when we are setting up our camp on the beach, by the Baltic Sea, Karla and I return to the apartment and I realize I'm fucked: I'm mesmerized by the new Moloko video (the name of the song escapes me.)
Our wish was to use the firepit surrounded by rocks, but it's taken by a loud Russian group. So we make do with a spot on the other side of the beach, the wet ground covered by pieces of cardboard Tina found in one of the student buildings.
People arrive for our party, disparate cliques. Goths, single girls, rockers, geeks, expats. Everyone throws their meat and fish on the grill, covers their plates with the salad from the bucket. We are loaded with vodka, beer. The night falls and we slowly begin conversations, get to know each other.
One of the goths appeals to me, in an aesthetic way. He has long black hair and pale skin. He reminds me of what I wanted to be in high school. His face is perfect, simetrical. He sits in his group, quiet. Later on, he talks a bit to the drunk Russians who join us (by this time, the Russian group has left and we have taken their firepit.)
The rain falls, the drinks get turned in our mouths. I still can't get drunk. I watch the flames of the fire, I watch and listen to the Swedish woman beside me express her love for her country. I feel her sadness somehow. Her boyfried, Barry, is a funny American from New Orleans.
An old friend of Karla's, Nick, comes to the party. They haven't seen each other in almost ten years. I remember him as a young rocker, long curly hair, trying to impress in Hong Kong. He doesn't remember me.
The night drifts to a close with the rain coming in from the sea. When the alcohol ends, the Swedes go home.
What we did during the day doesn't really matter... we didn't stray far from Tina and Glenn's apartment. I eat left overs of the garlic bread toasts, feel the warm buzz propelling me through the day. At one point, when we are setting up our camp on the beach, by the Baltic Sea, Karla and I return to the apartment and I realize I'm fucked: I'm mesmerized by the new Moloko video (the name of the song escapes me.)
Our wish was to use the firepit surrounded by rocks, but it's taken by a loud Russian group. So we make do with a spot on the other side of the beach, the wet ground covered by pieces of cardboard Tina found in one of the student buildings.
People arrive for our party, disparate cliques. Goths, single girls, rockers, geeks, expats. Everyone throws their meat and fish on the grill, covers their plates with the salad from the bucket. We are loaded with vodka, beer. The night falls and we slowly begin conversations, get to know each other.
One of the goths appeals to me, in an aesthetic way. He has long black hair and pale skin. He reminds me of what I wanted to be in high school. His face is perfect, simetrical. He sits in his group, quiet. Later on, he talks a bit to the drunk Russians who join us (by this time, the Russian group has left and we have taken their firepit.)
The rain falls, the drinks get turned in our mouths. I still can't get drunk. I watch the flames of the fire, I watch and listen to the Swedish woman beside me express her love for her country. I feel her sadness somehow. Her boyfried, Barry, is a funny American from New Orleans.
An old friend of Karla's, Nick, comes to the party. They haven't seen each other in almost ten years. I remember him as a young rocker, long curly hair, trying to impress in Hong Kong. He doesn't remember me.
The night drifts to a close with the rain coming in from the sea. When the alcohol ends, the Swedes go home.
