Both Rihanna Gaga and me are tired today. We spent the weekend in Belgium, staying in a hotel in Ghent, because some good friends were getting married. She clearly had to get used to sleeping in a hotel room. That and the excitement of the wedding have clearly worn her out. Still, despite all the new impressions, she showed good spirit throughout the weekend, so the fact that she is a bit whiney today is totally forgivable.
And in any case, she may be slightly more whiney than usual, but all in all, she is mostly just in a good mood, as she commonly is. When we're settled at Strandpaviljoen Summertime - which is where we're having breakfast today - she crawls around, laughing and being interested in anything that comes her way: little pieces of wood, used tea bags, basically anything she could put in her mouth. Of course, I don't let her do that, so I have to be constantly on my guard to interfere whenever her hand goes to her mouth.
Summertime is right in the middle of the boulevard, in front of the famous Kurhaus. Unlike many of the other beach clubs around here, it doesn't have a special theme or vibe. While the lack of a theme - and the absence of Buddha statues, which is even rarer! - is refreshing in itself, it does mean the beach club comes across a bit bland. Decorated mainly in white and lime green - which suits Rihanna Gaga's stroller, which is also lime green - with shells and apples scattered around as a finishing touch and dissonant orange and pink cushions, there is nothing that really sets this place apart from its neighbours. This is not true for the menu, though: as far as I know, Summertime is the only beach club that serves sushi and that alone makes it worth a visit.One could also describe the place in another way: it really is the kind of place you'd take your mother to: tasteful, but not in a too in-your-face way, laid back but not hip and trendy.
The weather is being incomprehensible. As we leave the house, dark clouds gather above the beach, but by the time we arrive, it's sunny, with large bright white clouds floating through the sky over the sea. The wind is still chilly, though, so I consider going inside. As I stand hestitating on the treshold, the manager ensures me that it really is nicer outside, so I follow his advice, too tired to think for myself. We sit down at the comfortable couches at the side of the terrace. There is no set breakfast, so I ask the broad shouldered and very friendly young waiter for bread with French cheese and honey.
Rihanna Gaga runs around and plays with her toys. There is no music, apart from one French chanson which is played around the time that my bread arrives. I wonder if they'd played an Italian song if I'd ordered the mozzerella sandwich, but decide this is probably a coincidence. Lunch tastes good, but nothing special, and I regret not having taken the odd decision to order sushi. This is why I like set breakfasts so much: if I have to choose, I always end up regretting my choice. My decision not to order shushi was, however, also influenced by the fact that the last time I ate sushi (at the nearby Sumo restaurant, located next to the Kurhaus) I got horrible food poisoning and the prospect of eating one of my favourite dishes has not been very appealing since then.
A group of women sits down next to us. They are the type of women who refer to themselves as girls, even when approaching forty, sport hairdos that I call "housewife punk" - asymmetrical spikes, often, but not necessarily dyed red and black in a seemingly random way, probably cost a fortune but looks nothing but hideous - and go on shopping trips to 'the big city' with their 'girlfriends', during which anything will make them break into hysterical fits of laughter. I mostly meet them while commuting by train. They're as excited as a group of schoolgirls about being on the beach, take selfies almost continuously and endlessly discuss the weather which is 'so much better than they expected'. In fact, it is so much better than expected that one of them decides to change her sweater for a top, which - my oh my! - she does right there on the terrace to the amused outrage of her friends, who laugh like madwomen and then decide to film the whole disaster (because, a disaster it is, because the attempt to change sweater for top must of course be executed without the show of any unseemly flesh, so the top goes of ther sweater and then the sweater goes off, but somewhere in the process the woman gets stuck). This much is sure: I am witnessing a myth in the making, a story that will be retold for years to come whenever these women come togehter in the future ('do you remember that time we went to the sea and she decided to change her clothes right there on the terrace!) amid hysteria that will be even more fevered than today and one day will be the death of one of them as she will be laughing so hard that her heart will simply be unable to take it.
Needless to say, Rihanna Gaga's attempts to get their attention are fruitless. This annoys her so much she starts to do more and more daring tricks to get her attention. During a brave attempt to swing herself from standing and holding the table to grasping the couch - which, it must be said, is very impressive - she falls on the floor and starts crying. I pick her up and soothe her, but she remains grumpy afterwards, until I cheer her up by tickling her and kissing her neck, which always makes her giggle.
To my astonishment, the women are not friends of about the same age, but a mother and her two daughters. This I discover when the father arrives. Immediately, one of the daughters shows him that hilarious film she made of her mother stuck in her own clothes. While he watches the film with an almost zen-like smile, his wife and daughters get their hysterical fits once again.
Rihanna Gaga is sulking again, so I decide that it's time to leave. She needs to sleep and I feel quite tired as well. The moment we leave, the grey clouds from earlier today come back.
And in any case, she may be slightly more whiney than usual, but all in all, she is mostly just in a good mood, as she commonly is. When we're settled at Strandpaviljoen Summertime - which is where we're having breakfast today - she crawls around, laughing and being interested in anything that comes her way: little pieces of wood, used tea bags, basically anything she could put in her mouth. Of course, I don't let her do that, so I have to be constantly on my guard to interfere whenever her hand goes to her mouth.
Summertime is right in the middle of the boulevard, in front of the famous Kurhaus. Unlike many of the other beach clubs around here, it doesn't have a special theme or vibe. While the lack of a theme - and the absence of Buddha statues, which is even rarer! - is refreshing in itself, it does mean the beach club comes across a bit bland. Decorated mainly in white and lime green - which suits Rihanna Gaga's stroller, which is also lime green - with shells and apples scattered around as a finishing touch and dissonant orange and pink cushions, there is nothing that really sets this place apart from its neighbours. This is not true for the menu, though: as far as I know, Summertime is the only beach club that serves sushi and that alone makes it worth a visit.One could also describe the place in another way: it really is the kind of place you'd take your mother to: tasteful, but not in a too in-your-face way, laid back but not hip and trendy.
The weather is being incomprehensible. As we leave the house, dark clouds gather above the beach, but by the time we arrive, it's sunny, with large bright white clouds floating through the sky over the sea. The wind is still chilly, though, so I consider going inside. As I stand hestitating on the treshold, the manager ensures me that it really is nicer outside, so I follow his advice, too tired to think for myself. We sit down at the comfortable couches at the side of the terrace. There is no set breakfast, so I ask the broad shouldered and very friendly young waiter for bread with French cheese and honey.
Rihanna Gaga runs around and plays with her toys. There is no music, apart from one French chanson which is played around the time that my bread arrives. I wonder if they'd played an Italian song if I'd ordered the mozzerella sandwich, but decide this is probably a coincidence. Lunch tastes good, but nothing special, and I regret not having taken the odd decision to order sushi. This is why I like set breakfasts so much: if I have to choose, I always end up regretting my choice. My decision not to order shushi was, however, also influenced by the fact that the last time I ate sushi (at the nearby Sumo restaurant, located next to the Kurhaus) I got horrible food poisoning and the prospect of eating one of my favourite dishes has not been very appealing since then.
A group of women sits down next to us. They are the type of women who refer to themselves as girls, even when approaching forty, sport hairdos that I call "housewife punk" - asymmetrical spikes, often, but not necessarily dyed red and black in a seemingly random way, probably cost a fortune but looks nothing but hideous - and go on shopping trips to 'the big city' with their 'girlfriends', during which anything will make them break into hysterical fits of laughter. I mostly meet them while commuting by train. They're as excited as a group of schoolgirls about being on the beach, take selfies almost continuously and endlessly discuss the weather which is 'so much better than they expected'. In fact, it is so much better than expected that one of them decides to change her sweater for a top, which - my oh my! - she does right there on the terrace to the amused outrage of her friends, who laugh like madwomen and then decide to film the whole disaster (because, a disaster it is, because the attempt to change sweater for top must of course be executed without the show of any unseemly flesh, so the top goes of ther sweater and then the sweater goes off, but somewhere in the process the woman gets stuck). This much is sure: I am witnessing a myth in the making, a story that will be retold for years to come whenever these women come togehter in the future ('do you remember that time we went to the sea and she decided to change her clothes right there on the terrace!) amid hysteria that will be even more fevered than today and one day will be the death of one of them as she will be laughing so hard that her heart will simply be unable to take it.Needless to say, Rihanna Gaga's attempts to get their attention are fruitless. This annoys her so much she starts to do more and more daring tricks to get her attention. During a brave attempt to swing herself from standing and holding the table to grasping the couch - which, it must be said, is very impressive - she falls on the floor and starts crying. I pick her up and soothe her, but she remains grumpy afterwards, until I cheer her up by tickling her and kissing her neck, which always makes her giggle.
To my astonishment, the women are not friends of about the same age, but a mother and her two daughters. This I discover when the father arrives. Immediately, one of the daughters shows him that hilarious film she made of her mother stuck in her own clothes. While he watches the film with an almost zen-like smile, his wife and daughters get their hysterical fits once again.
Rihanna Gaga is sulking again, so I decide that it's time to leave. She needs to sleep and I feel quite tired as well. The moment we leave, the grey clouds from earlier today come back.
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