My Little Monster

Tiny tiny Nesblandian village

Biggest mistake I ever made – take my daughter to Europe, to Nesblandia in fact. Now she would like to go back tomorrow. No, tomorrow is too late – yesterday would be better. Even more, she would like to live back there for good.
Whereas before, life outside Nesblandia was fine. Now she sees it as rather boring. Very boring rather.
I get the blame: why did I have to leave Nesblandia and not stay there somewhere, anywhere, as long as it was Nesblandia.

She keeps bringing up the friends we made, (just like that, out of the blue, she says, in an instant, right there in the street/train/museum! And they gave us their e-mail address, phone number – how about that!) the Places, the Beauty, the History, the Climate, the Landscape, the Architecture, the Museums, the Chocolates, the Cakes, the Cities, the Art in Public Spaces, the Restaurants, the Parks, the Elegant Clothes, the Slender People (as in opposition of every third person being overweight ) the Enormous Libraries, the Book Stores Crammed with People Like a Woolwoorths in a Major Sale Day, etc.

The strawberries we picked on a field there were the best she ever tasted; they had a flavour she never knew they had before.
The croissant was something so different, that it seemed that what she had before were related to the French one just through the shape and nothing else.
The cherries were soo sweet! And then the sour cherries she never knew that could be eaten fresh as well.
The highways were so beautiful with their soundproof high fences and the animals so well protected in not getting hurt as they crossed.
The old castles were so unreal how they appeared on the top of those fortified hills, like a fairy tale come true.
Those villages were so spotless clean, so cute, so like little towns from a fairy tale.
The farms were all like model farms.
The shops, all open till late!
The streets still full of people at 9 p.m.!
The houses, wow, all solid, spacious, massive, with high ceilings; nothing built from cardboard or plastic planks, shabby or improvised like a garden shed; the windows you could open for fresh air, properly, and then you could even stick your head out, without fear of being decapitated; the old buildings with their charm, full of shadows of the past, standing for 2-300 years and still inhabitable.
And those groups of young friends traveling in packs – she loved that the most. The teenager with backpacks traveling together. How they met on the road and stuck together and became friends – a Dutch and 2 Germans and a Polish boy with his Hungarian girlfriend; that group of 5 Austrian girls doing the Provence tour; and so on.

And the boys – wow! – the boys on the street, all so gooood loooking, my God! Like models from some stupid glossy magazine.
And even the hetero guys smelled nice there. Without having to be gay!

I think I created a monster.