Go to the Romanian seaside.
If the filthy beaches packed with fat ladies and gold laden rednecks that put their towels two centimeters from yours and you actually have to walk them over like toads to get to the sea don’t make the hair on your back stand up, then the shitty so-called latino music broadcast by a local radio station through megaphones every fucking second all over the place will most certainly do. But the radio station is not alone, every open-air pub lined up ten meters away along the beach has its own music, many times heavily distorted because the small loudspeakers are not up to the task. And if you’re really masochistic at lunch time you can then go to one of them, it doesn’t matter which one because they have the same shitty so-called food and wait at least an hour for someone to come and take your order and then wait at least one more hour for the waiter to come and throw the plate in front of you. Then, if you’re lucky, he’ll come back with three separate bills for your one meal saying they had some trouble with the cash register so that they can now charge you the V.A.T. three times for the same shit.
Now read the previous paragraph once more but without stopping for air, and NEVER — I really mean NEVER — come to the seaside here. Or NEVER do it again if you’ve already done that mistake.
Jesus, how I hate this fucking country! But no, it’s not the country. The country is beautiful, but as they say — too bad it’s inhabited.
P.S.: three weeks have passed since my return from the seaside and it seems I’m still under post-traumatic stress…