Is there anything better than sitting on a porch with a book, after a long and exhausting day of walking, while the rain spatters on the street just in front of you and cools the air? You sit in a wicker chair, the porch is lined with plants and bushes in pots, which still bear the decorations of Chinese New Year in red and gold. Behind you someone is playing the guitar, testing out his newly acquired book of sheet music; not overwhelming, but it doesn't disturb you in your reading.
Your skin still feels tight and sore from the sunburn you got yesterday, and even though you wore long sleeves today, and stayed in the shade as much as possible, you can only agree to the fact that your sunburn got a sunburn today. But you have had a cold soothing shower when you returned to the hostel, and put on lots of lotion, so the pain has almost gone by now.
The hotel just across the street has some dingy feel to it. You have watched several backpackers approach the door, but nobody ever crosses the threshold, one look and they turn away without even asking to see the rooms. A lot of young men come and go, they could be Thai or Indonesian, and appear to be working on construction sites or somewhere else that requires towels around their heads and sturdy trousers. A cat lives there too, just then she carried her kitten in by the neck and vanished behind the open door; you were at first trying to make sure it was a live kitten, and not a rat, and much to your relieve you confirmed the first.
On the porch of the hostel next-door sits one of these young hippie-types that seem to be attracted to this town. Not just the young ones, you have seen several of retirement age that have definitely been in the game since the original 60s flower power scene. The beards speak volumes. This young one next-door doesn't have a beard, but sports an enviable Afro, in blonde, which you would just love run your hands through. As does he, apparently.
The middle-aged man returns that sits somewhere with you on this porch every evening, also equipped with a book. You nod, he nods, he takes a seat, you turn to your books. Yours is the one you bought in London when you were just there on a visit, and tells of a policeman/wizard apprentice who solves weird crimes around London, with detailed descriptions that make you feel melancholy. His you have no idea.
On occasion the stench from the gutter running along the street comes wafting in, but with the cool breeze, ensured by the fan up on the ceiling, it disperses again quickly. Still, it takes you a moment before you feel like another sip of your drink. You put on some extra mosquito repellent, you bought the one with citrus and cloves that smells so nice, to you, not the mosquitoes you hope, and strongly, in order to overpower the next wave from the gutter.
You write this blog, in the second person, because you want to try the style of the last book you read, and somehow feel it's weird... so I suppose I will not stick to it. Well then, let me return to my book, and the peacefulness of sitting out on the porch, before turning in to a night of sleep.
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