That day my legs only planned to walk 19,685 steps. Which is peanuts for me, so the night before I let myself party a bit with the Irish. I got up late, so did the Irish guy, since the two of them had decided during the evening hangout to come with me to La Isla, to visit my friend who runs an albergue. I call him Santos.
Surprisingly, we woke up without hangovers and headed off. The path started by the beaches, then went uphill across pastures where the cows live. A bunch of them were having breakfast and simultaneously doing their business. And let’s be honest, it’s not really “small” or “medium” business when it comes to cows – more like big and massive. That’s rural landscape for you. Everyone who knows me knows I love cows »on a plate« but the funny truth is that I’m scared of them. They’ve got a weird stare when you make eye contact, they’re huge, and they walk funny. I don’t trust them. When I got hit by the morning shock therapy of cows blocking my way forward, I looked for a way around them but couldn’t find one. So I had no choice but to face them. That’s when Berliner woke up and told me his story about being scared of chihuahuas. One day he saw a chihuahua in the middle of the road, wanted to pet it, and it attacked him. Classic short-man complex, if you ask me. It started barking and chasing him, and out of nowhere three more chihuahuas joined in. He said those cows were nothing compared to the chihuahuas. “I got this,” he said, and the Almighty told me to just close my eyes and walk past them, that everything would be fine. And would you believe it – it actually was. But still, even a cow can have a bad day.
When I got to the town we were staying in, I waited for the Irish guys at the bar so we could go together. And true to Irish style, they showed up each holding a beer.
As for how the day played out afterwards – I’ll just say this: It’s easy to get an Irishman into a bar, the hard part is getting him out.
The best parties are the ones no one documents.
Best regards,
5th Amendment.
