Sometimes you’re better off out of it. As Zidane’s last minute penalty gave France their shock Euro2004 victory over England this afternoon, I drained my beer glass and left the hotel bar. The feast has been spoiled by the final mouthful. Not spaghetti but worms.
The consolation is knowing that I’m not at home to witness the wailing and the breast-beating of a nation and her hysterical press. Instead, I wander down to the beach with my book, order another outlandish cocktail, and settle back to watch the Caribbean sunset. It’s someone else’s problem now.
I managed a sort of run this morning. Up at 6 and out. The plan was a mild 40 minutes but I managed only 25. It wasn’t so much a jog as a gentle orientational plod down to the sea, along the beach a bit before doubling back past the dingy tenements housing the people who work at this resort. We’re out of here tomorrow to poke around the real Cuba, I hope.
