The next morning, the reunited trio checked out of the unburnt hostel and headed over to Sevilla’s main bus station, aiming one more time to buy tickets without showing their passports.
Una tarea optimista at first but
with no air-con
30 degree heat
a queue of ten propped up behind
it soon sank into pale farce, Joanna trying to put a new plaster on Sila’s leaking arm wound as he said ‘too young to do passport’ to the ticket guy, and Søren picking at the dry blood scabs, whispering something in old Danish.
The final result, no tickets
and watery coffee in the bus terminal café.
‘Really, really don’t want to drive,’ started Sila, scratching his plaster, eyes on the Debordian hole in the station wall.
‘No car,’ replied Joanna, taking her coffee cup back from Søren.
‘… … … …’ in raw Danish.
‘It’s my drink.’
‘… … … … …’
‘You’ve already had half.’
‘… … … …’
‘That’s my finger.’
‘… … … … …’
Sila told them both to stop in Danish, pulled out his phone and stared at the blank screen. Then the hole in the bus terminal wall again. A local was bending down, placing a toy sledgehammer like a bouquet of aware that you’re dead lilies.Continue reading