cro monday

Balcony doors open all night, small table two chairs there, louvréd shutters, view across scrub to blocks of flats in the distance, like anthills for people.
Socialist living concept, everyone gets their little box to be born in, to live in, and ultimately to die in.
that is it. It is hot and humid, south of the Alps.

from the flat window in Pula

The sea is not far away, the son is up, starts the coffee machine. And it burbles in the background whilst he listens to grown men sqwalk like children, celebrating their successes and failures at a childrens game on the internet. A small mobile telephone that shows pictures and connects with the landlords internet systemt, his complex conflict with routers and boosters and repeaters and whateverhaveyou.
Technological electrickery.

The coffee is made, another day can begin. Another day of unrelaxed holiday making, trying to live up to some ideal of urlaub, sun sea sand and hanging about just as you would do at home, only somewhere else.
Just strange visual input, no communication with the local people here, who are just trying to get on with their own lives and struggles with each other and trying to ignore the anti-hibernational influx of strangers.
Strangers with money, but who are otherwise boring, uninteresting beach-bumming cash cows, who think that they have a right to order but all they have is the right to pay.
Fair enough, it is their country.