1995 Gran Canaria: At the Beach

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Gran Canaria

 

1995

3 Months

NYC

A Jewel

Eivissa

Tree Abuse

ECO

Black Friday

Bocadillo

Danger!

Estofado

Sangria

Rave

Cannibis

Camino Viejo

Neutrinos

Weather

Roosters

JCS

The PM

Plongeé

Smila

Customs

O. J. Verdict

1995 Eivissa (Ibiza): Fish Monger

A Roar

MacWorld

Padinkos

Bye E, Hello GC

Gran Canaria

Where

A Tour

How

Food

Yumbo

Las Palmas

Playa

1995 Gran Canaria: Potpourri

Norteños

More Food

Irishmen

Heading Home

USA

With Dad

Back at Home

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1995 Gran Canaria: At the Beach

28 October 1995

Today I'm taking the digital camera down to the beach. I walk from Atlantis Uno down to what used to be a bare strip of sand, but what is now a strip mall. It's a nice place for the local businesses to showcase their wares, but the recent addition of an American fast-food outlet sours the experience for me.

The first thing I always notice is the promenade, where all sorts of folks stroll about. Most of the tourists are German, Dutch, or Scandinavian. Rarely Spanish. Very, very rarely American, except for the gay men who come on the tours.

Coming down to the promenade to do some seeing is fun, but being seen has its points as well. From left to right are some boisterous English tourists, some German kniepe (small bar which serves food) owners that we met elsewhere, and a very typical visitor to the islands.

Entertaining the crowds in the tropics is thirsty work, or so I thought when I encountered this off-duty mime. On duty, some mimes stalk the crowds. Clowns create ballon animals.

I near the end of my promenade journey, stopping briefly to check out the kaffee und kuchen at a German backerei. My stepping-off point is the American Ice Cream tienda. As I go a Senegalese wristwatch seller flashes me a big smile and offers me his wares.

It's only a few moments before I'm at the water's edge, enjoying the sight of a catamaran gliding nearby. A few moments later the Cruz Roja del Mar (Ocean Red Cross) truck drives by, parking behind the rescue lookout station.

I stop my southward trek at the beach the Germans used to laughingly call the schweinebucht (Bay of Pigs), a self-deprecating joke on their physical condition. Now the elderly straight tourists are nowhere to be seen, only leather-clad and oiled gay men.

I turn around and head north, towards San Augustine. First I pass a stone bunker; the beach is trying to wear away at this foreign invader, returning it to the earth. I've been told these are relics of the war. I pass an Italian gymnastic team practicing for a competition; a clown wearing the team colors is juggling.

Finally I reach San Augustine. Two guys in their shanty give me a stare, then a smile. A potted Christmas tree festooned with colored lights rudely reminds me that it's November. A courtyard sporting lights and tinsel drives home the shock. Mom and Dad, near New York City, are probably having frost or even snow. Wow.

I climb up a long staircase cut into the side of the hills, until I come to a good place to see where I've walked today.

My day at the beach ends with the setting of the sun. Time to head back up the road to Atlantis Uno. Oma is waiting.

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