Yesterday I went to the beach in Sitges with two friends. The plan was to spend the afternoon there and then go to Sant Quintí, my summer village.
Unfortunately, there’s bad communication using public transport between Sitges and Vilafranca; don’t even think about Sant Quintí. So we were to take the train to Coma-ruga, change train, go to Vilafranca and hope to get there before my brother left for Sant Quintí so I wouldn’t need to phone my father to pick us up.
But everybody knows I’m so lucky ― I’m so lovely, lovely. That’s why we run into two girls from Sant Quintí on our way to the train station, two friends I haven’t met for some time. I was so happy to hear they were going to the village by car, the two of them alone, with three free spaces in the car. They got a bit offended because my happiness was not due to the fact of meeting them.
OK, I may be good-looking, tall, thin, blonde, deep blue eyes, clever and nice ― more or less ―, but I have one shortcoming: I’m elusive. For some reason my average of friends meeting per year is about four times. And if I meet some of them once a month, imagine how often I see the ones who compensate for the average.
You may think: “You can count real friends on the fingers of one hand and you are putting everyone in the same bag.” Well, I’m not. I’m talking about the real friends you meat in your life: in the village, at school, at university, in summer camps, on holiday… No matter for how long you have been apart, you meet and it’s like it was just some hours. That doesn’t happen with the bag ones.
So, if anyone takes the hint, say something. I can be missing for two months, but I don’t hesitate to take a train at eleven o’clock at night even if I have to work the morning after if that’s the way to meet a friend.