Ten Minutes

There are oddly shaped trees in Colonia del Sacramento pointing their branches up into the brilliant blue skies like a grotesquely long stretched skelleton hand. Their skin is covered with a layered, blotty patchwork of olive, drab and kakhi. Each hand is raised as if praying to a celestial to send them the bright light and clear water. It is an open air, inside-out temple of nature. And as the prayers had been heard, the finger caps had already burst into a network of small branches and leaves in shades from lime to chartreuse.

Aligned along many of the wide cobblestone streets, these trees present themselves as proud but mesmerized guardians only shaken by the careless breath of the wind. Disabled as tiny tin soldiers spoiled by little kids, they only have arms left instead of dreadly weapons. Their unworthy duty is to provide shade, while at the same time keeping themselves alive.

In awe he stopped and was moved. Admiring the might of this moment with his eyes jerkingly following the logs and branches as they split into infinity his body took a long rest while his brain created new links between his cells in an attempt to memorize this weak nexus between nature and him. Stepping back up, he turned around.

Little did he know as he continued cruising around with the bicycle from the hostel that this was a very special Saturday. It was a bumpy ride and the saddle of the wine red vehicle was set far too low for him. Not even a kid would have had fun with it tossing it away and stomping with his feet, waiting for his father to fix it. When pushing the pedals is easier while standing you know that something is wrong. But it was a wrong he was not able to correct with his limited set of tools. Tools that Alan, an Irishman living in Sweden would call a deadly weapon that better is kept inside a pocket or even at home instead of taking it out inside a nightclub, insanely attempting to pop those huge balloons, especially when drunk. Even as the balloons had to face their fate of being abused by slightly scant dressed dancers and drag queens, Alan considered this less crazy.

The wheels turned slowly and jumped a few times as he approached the Plaza Mayor on the rough road with the sun burning in this back. Where were the guardians now when he needed their protection? But he didn’t blame them. He had this notion of the perfect weather turning into a raging magnetic storm later that day, keeping him up all through the sticky night. Time would proof him right this time. He felt the teasing warmth on his back covered by his new and shiny black T-shirt from a souvenir shop at the Auckland airport and rather associated it with love than hate. He smiled.

Convinced that the already roaring chain, bound to itself, bound to others, would not support more force and in fear he would ruin his rusty old horse, the stopped the steep ascend and leaned his bicycle against the white walls. The bike gave one last squeak as if it was happy to finally get relief from the senseless flogging by its keeper.

He spotted a small opening on the opposite wall. It was clearly the entry to the lighthouse, sitting within the ruins of the ancient fortification that once defended the village. Natural and slow expansion had formed an organic structure of the streets and junctions at wild angles inside this stronghold. Much like ice crystals on a well-insulated window back home in the northern hemisphere where you can easily imagine the nose of a curious child pressed against from the inside and creating an increasing circle of fog in front of his mouth. This tacky thought never crossed his mind. But compared to the ugly grid of streets in the outgrowths of this former colony it is all that remains of a less box-minded society.

After deciding there was only a minor admission to pay to get a glimpse of what birds could see, he flew up the narrow green steps. Or at least he tried to, but the pair of elderly people pretending fitness though in exhaustion after only a few steps, inhibited him. Again, he didn’t mind. There was no rush. The two sometimes spoke a few words to him in Spanish, telling that he could overtake them. But he smiled back and indicated that he had the time. Only after they had completely stopped for a longer rest, he took the opportunity.

The view on the top of the lighthouse was not as spectacular as it could be. It wasn’t bad either. But yet, he could not see what was so special about this day. Maybe not special for him. And indeed.

His eyes followed the horizon, searching for unknown islands in the distance while the sandy brown ocean sat there calmly offering only pastel contrasts from the sky. This colour of the water made him feel uncomfortable. Where was the start of the ocean, where was the end of the Rio de la Plata river and on what means would you draw the line? Where do I end and where do you begin? Was it an everlasting fight between these masses, would every drop, every molecule give up in the end and be a part of the bigger nothingness? He doubted that a molecule could claim an ownership anyway.

The cranky nutshells of sailing boats of the local fishermen floating along like pollen-crazy bumble bees in extreme slow motion proposed nothing to be gained. At least not for these tiny and lonely crests above the water: They were not promised undiscovered lands.

He spotted his bike and he was glad to see it still there. The hostel did not provide a lock for it, saying that it would not be necessary. Still, he could not shake the shadow of bad luck that he might be lurking on him. This was non-sense. Except for a few incidents, he had been extremly fortunate during his travels.

Shapes of roof-tops and houses made up a three dimensional game of Tetris in white, brick red and green. Except for a few tourist, this place was clearly god-forsaken and deserted. But that’s not what he felt about it. In a way, it just mirrored the loneliless and despair that popped up from time to time. Maybe he had something in common with this continent, making him strangely attached to it. But no, these were not his feelings.

He stepped back down again through the small hatch in the floor. On the way down he had to stop and wait for other people to come up and step outside onto the platform half-way up. Lifting his left eyebrow he had noticed the green steps to have lost their green paint and had been polished in a regular alternating left/right pattern. How could it be that nearly everyone would be using the same foot to start walking up or down the stairs? Maybe this was one of the reasons for the unequal distribution of matter and anti-matter that eventually kicked this universe into existence.

Pushing his bike up to the Plaza Mayor, he climbed upon it again, with it giving a terrified weeping before returning to its vicious routine. He passed a few cafes and restaurants with minor interest. There were many museums here that didn’t gain his attention either, so it was nothing personal at all. However, at one restaurant a few more people were standing and staring at the opposite direction, where the church stood. He felt inclined to stop and stare, too. The bland and white building was a lot less magnificent than the alley of praying trees.

A few men and women were walking around frenetically. Most of the men wore their best suits looked as tidy and appeared proud as they could be. The young women exhibited graceful long dresses, flagging brightly in the afternoon breeze. They were all nervous. It spread around like a virus and even the bystanders seem to be affected. The anticipation of what was about to come flooded the air around the artists of this theater called real life.

And finally a red and white oldtimer slowly made its appearance from the road up to the base of the church. Within moments, the tension had passed and real smiles of happiness filled the faces of the friends and relatives. A few seconds passed until the young lady in a beautiful egg-shell dress holding a bouquet of matching roses took a deep breath and stepped outside the carriage. She was clearly the princess of the day and you could see in her eyes and her movement, that she really felt that way. She was charming without a spell and no arrogance was among it.

He imagined her groom, that lucky bastard, to await the arrival of his bride in both dread and desire. The moment the father would pass over the his daughter to his son-in-law. The moment they both would vow. The moment they would exchange rings. The kiss. Only a fraction of a lifetime had passed for them so far, and the rest of it would change for the better. At least that is what he assumed. There was a rush of blood to the head that was to be blamed for a short wave of envy across his mind. He blushed for a moment but regained integrity soon after.

Now he saw it all. It was the special day for this one couple. Time to go home.