How she had survived in the midst of the new, small, colorful hotels that emerged in recent years in the campsite, no one could say. His cracked wooden sides, the broken windows, the broken door, and the bushed and bushy stucco-ridden cement-ridden grounds around it, saw all those who came here for the waves, the sun and the yellow sand all summer. There were those who could not imagine that they would rest elsewhere by the sea. This campsite was hanging in his memoirs some other times. Everywhere there was a multilingual speech. Around the restaurant in the center, in front of the two daily grocery stores, or on the asphalt narrow alleys, the sides around which the figs cast their heavy charming smell, the glowing sunset and the red dawns in the morning chill.
The bungalow was always hospitable. For the young boys who were lucky late in the night to take bronze girls in their narrow and squatting room. For grandfathers and grandparents who run all day after their little grandchildren, crushed on their cheeks with ice cream or fig-like juice, and in the evening yelling that they should break with the dance floor and the orchestra when the games became sweeter. Or for the secret couples who had put off their family happiness, because something recently with their partners does not go like before, yet once lives, does not it?
The bungalow did not return anybody. And he was so discreet, how secrets he kept between his old cupboards, behind the mirror with the broken corner, or by the shower in the bathroom, which rarely enjoyed a great stream of warm water, but who came to the sea to pay attention to these details.
Everyone here came to meet something they themselves sometimes did not know, what it would be like. But it was always so different, so exciting and so memorable. And that's why the bungalow was sure it would never be forgotten.
But things have changed a lot in recent years. With a barbed wire it separated him from his neighbor bungalows, one autumn some people with heavy machines came up, started to roam, buzzle, scrape, shout, shout, and until the summer in the place of the bungalows aside two small hotels grew aside, swimming pool with fresh water. The bungalow became very restless. It's been two years since no resorts came to him. His prominent stance moved, the paint on the outside began to peel, his door turned limp, only swallows crawled past his bowed forehead, he even lost his sleep because it was the inevitable ...
This spring, however, happened differently. Two young men came, hooked up some thick ropes around him, tied them to a large platform, and found himself on top of her. Then, for the last time, he saw the yellow sand, the blue waves, the high poplars in the distance, he felt the smell of the figs move away from him, and when he shook the shock he realized he was traveling on a highway. Inside the wide vineyards, near the yellow laughing faces of the sunflowers and the slender stems of bearded corn cobs. What will happen to me, the old bungalow thought, and closed his tearful eyes.
And now, at the height of the summer, he realized he had been lucky. You are standing on a new cement site, a small river bends its way down to the plain, and stones and high peaks shimmering its flesh in front of it. There are colored windows on its windows, yellow and blue paint around its new door, the floor is covered with beige terracotta, and in the bathroom the shower is waiting to warm the water outside, in the big tank under the sun's rays. And sometimes, at the end of the week, there are different people, some young, some not so many. But they are all careful. And children happen to have with them, children are their children, who does not love them.
Only one is missing. The noise of the sea and that red disk of the rising sun, which quickly turns into lemon yellow.
But these days he heard a little girl telling my dad about his dreams. And he was so pleased that he felt new powers in him.
"Dad, when we come here, I know we're on a mountain, but tell me why I always dream of the sea ... I even seem to hear the sound of the waves and the cry of the seagulls.
The old bungalow knows why. And if she could, she would tell such stories to him ... But it is not necessary, the little girl will soon grow up and only create them, colorful, colorful, exciting. Certainly the sea will be most memorable.