Don't Dream It's Over

I’ve been here, there and everywhere the past few days. Part of my game plan to forget the stunning, shocking, horrible defeat of Justine to the fat, big-eyed and weird French woman (they’re not my words, I tell you).

My happy feet brought me to as far as Barcelona. No, not Spain. It’s a remote place lined with long stretch of ash-colored sands facing the all too calm Pacific Ocean. As me and my Kuya waited for the fishermen’s arrival, I mentally note that the place is good for wind surfing. The charming waves were very inviting and the place is totally unexploited although the locals doesn’t seem to care on a potential tourist spot.

Far from the civilization and the attention of the powers-that-be, it broke my heart and scared the daylights out of my wits when I realized that we need to cross a rotten bridge that is ready to tumble at the faintest whisper of the wind. But cross we did.

Cross we did. And all in one piece. On our way back, my heart was heavy as I think about the rotten and ailing bridge. It is a disaster waiting to happen. Perhaps, the bridge is waiting for someone to go down with it.

Knock on the wood.