Once out of eyeshot in Switzerland, we left via cloudsurfing. There had been no storms in the area, and at least Jack and I could do that. Lacking any leads on how to cure our conditions, we headed west to find out if Belgian chocolate was actually better than Swiss. That had been the rough plan, but a strong desire to push the limits of our ability to metabolize alcohol won out, so we ended up in a sports bar in. . . .
“Where the hell are we, again?” I asked.
“Knokke-Heist,” Anna Maria answered, though she slurred a little.
Jack belched, pointing at Anna Maria.
Some of the other patrons looked over at Jack, frowning.
Nat was gradually sampling all of the different beers the bar stocked, and gradually I meant an entire bottle in one go. She had the empties lined up like a curved wall around her, keeping the rest of us out.
“Why here?” I asked.
“The seaside is very pleasant,” Anna Maria said. “A refreshing change of pace from the Mediterranean. “ She gestured to the window and the view of the beach, which was dark since it was ten at night.
“She shells sheashells by the sheashore!” Jack said, butchering the tongue twister, probably on purpose.
“Jack,” I waggled my finger at him. You might not wanna do that. Think those guys are getting pissed.” I stopped waggling my finger with my other hand.
“We’re all getting pissed!”
“Joaquim!” Anna Maria shouted, then backed it down. “Do not cause a scene.”
“Oh, come on, it’s fucking soccer. No one fucking cares about soccer.”
Apparently, the men watching the game disagreed and we soon found ourselves being carried out of the bar, down the beach, and literally thrown into the incoming tide.