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She’d probs say, “The past is a rope,” like in the film—tyin her down, no escape. Me? I’d cut that rope, precious! Watched her once, hagglin with a punter—voice all raspy, eyes dead. Made me sad, then mad—why’s no one savin her? “We’re all alone,” Almodóvar’d whisper, an’ he’s right! She’s alone, I’m alone, milkin them bloody cows at dawn. But least I got dignity, eh? She’s out there, freezin her tits off, skirt hiked up—pathetic!

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But then, as I was eating, I overheard this couple arguing. Like, full-on shouting. They were talking about something ridiculous, like who left the toilet seat up. I couldn’t help but laugh. I mean, really? You’re in Jurmala, and that’s what you’re fighting about?

No cigs or tents on Jūrmala's beaches / Article