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Karin Slaughter on Tesla

When reading modern literature, one comes across the car brand Tesla quite a lot. Thriller authors seem to have some crush with Elon Musk’s electric cars. I asked best seller author Karin Slaughter why she decided to turn bad guy Paul Scott from her novel Pretty Girls into a Tesla Model S-driver.

Karin Slaughter might not be the only author chosing Tesla for her protagonist, she surely is the biggest one, having sold over 35 million books in 27 languages. In her 2015-thriller Pretty Girls, bad guy Paul Scott drives a Tesla Model S, and the brand name turns into a sort of antonomasia for car. Why Tesla? Slaughter explains:

“Okay, so first I should say that my dad owned a car dealership and sold cars my entire childhood, so I am way more into cars than a normal person should be. The funny thing about cars is that they mean different things in different countries. For instance, in the US, assholes drive Mercedes and cool people drive BMWs. It’s the opposite in the UK. When I wrote Pretty Girls, Teslas were universally cool and unattainable but for the wealthy. And then Elon Musk turned into a joke and a tool and they lost their cache. And then Tesla hit production benchmarks, the lower-priced version sold like gangbusters, Musk stopped being stupid, and they were cool again. What I was doing with Paul’s Tesla was using it as an extension of his personality. Let’s be honest, paying $150,000 for a car to help “save” the environment is a rich man’s luxury.”

Is it some sort of product placement, or is it functional to describe Paul’s personality?

“It’s definitely not product placement (but if you want to throw a few cars my way, Tesla, I won’t turn you down). The types of cars that my characters drive say something about their personalities and/or state of mind. In my Will Trent series, Sara drives a BMW, Will drives a Porsche 911, and Faith drives a Mini. Each of these cars says something about the person. Sara: reliable and sophisticated. Will: edgy and capable of bending his knees far enough to get into the car. Faith: fun but practical. In Pretty Girls, Paul drives the Tesla because it is a status symbol and because he is a control freak. Did you see the inside of that guy’s garage? Not a spot of oil shall touch that floor. The Tesla is more practical for that type of personality.”

If so: what does the ownership of a Tesla say about a personality?

“Well, it depends on the person, right? And also the country, because in places like the Netherlands, there are all sorts of tax incentives that can make Tesla a very smart buy. We don’t have those incentives in the US (especially now, when Trump seems determined to burn down the world) but I am writing novels set in the United States during a particular time, so I have to write from that perspective while also giving cues to readers in other countries as to what message I am sending. So, if I as a woman living in the Southern part of the United States owned a Tesla it would mean that I like nice things but I care about the environment and sustainability. But Paul doesn’t give a damn about the environment. He does care that people admire his things. Also, owning a Tesla makes him seem important while he stands on virtue. There are lots of ways to look at it, ultimately. I mean, come on—you could drive a Prius if you really cared. Or take a bike to work!”

How do you see Tesla imagewise?

“Tesla is innovating in the electric car/battery storage space better than anyone else right now—and as you likely know, the battery storage is the most important part as far as vertical integration into the power grid, which could make the largest impact on reversing (or at least slowing down) climate change. That being said, I think we can all agree that having a cult of personality around Musk is a very bad idea. Lee Iacocca never smoked pot on a podcast (though I’m sure he threw back some scotch in his time). The fact is that Tesla as a brand is inexorably linked to Musk in the way that Ford was linked to Henry Ford. Now, during Ford’s time, he was an awful human being. He was antisemitic, racist, sexist, paranoid, intrusive and a financial supporter of the Eugenics research that helped the Nazis prop up the pseudo-science behind the Holocaust. Only a few of those things were controversial positions during his lifetime; however, there was no internet or CNN, and the world was programmed to worship the genius captains of industry who revolutionized our economy and forgive their myriad sins because of progress. Now, we know that mostly those guys are as full of shit as they are full of themselves. Unfortunately, they will only be better when we demand better. (And as an aside, a woman who’d done all the crazy things Musk did would’ve been sidelined by now no matter how genius she was).”

In the acknowledgement, once again you mention Tesla, even suggesting you would love to get one yourself. Where does your love for the brand derive from?

“I just love cars—and in that way I am brand agnostic. Nevertheless, Tesla has a really good chance of winning over my love from all other cars, especially if they throw a few free cars my way.”

Will we see Tesla’s again in your next novel?

“I don’t have a Tesla in my next book, but I won’t rule out having one in the future. The question is, will Tesla be around in the coming years? The best innovators aren’t always the winners. Cadillac was eclipsed when Ford left and created the assembly line. In the early 1900s, Daimler’s biggest competitor was Oldsmobile. The latter was one of the oldest brands in the automobile world and sold over 35 million units before it was shuttered in 2004. So now driving an Olds means something totally different than it did in 1920, 1960, and 1990. In that way, writers have to be careful about the brands they write about. In the context of Pretty Girls, I think Paul paying that much money for a status symbol is universal. That guy exists in every decade. He is timeless in his assholery.”

Beyond the Grave

keverberg kessel frank jacobs frankjacobs limburg netherlands After the death in a dutch convent of a mediocre nun, the old noble family Van Keverberg van Kessel seems to be extinct. A century later, though, it appears that her father, the last baron, during the sinister last days of his life woke up powers that spread their lethal tentacles out to the present. Suddenly, people are fighting over his legacy. But why? What enigma did he take with him in his grave? Eventually, only his grave can de-escalate the situation, but no-one knows where that is.

Beyond the Grave is a historical fact-fiction thriller, based on the turbulent life of baron Frederik van Keverberg van Kessel, a colorful querulant who died in 1876, after which his corpse vanished, leaving only a mystery. The story switches between the closed dutch country life of the 19th century and contamporary Paris, and travels with the immigrants across the Atlantic to hostile New York and with the homesteaders to the new territories, via the Great Plains of Nebraska back to the sinister secrets of the baron.

Trash

Trash is the story by a man who gets romantically involved with the girl next door, a lovely and beautiful single mother. The first period of their relationship is great, but by the time Mark really starts loving her, Rachel turns out to be an alcoholic. Mark decides to help her, but misses the indications of far bigger trouble. While fighting Rachel’s alcoholism, for both the sake of Rachel and her baby, Mark slowly gets stuck in a web of borderline personality disorder. Lies, treason, shoplifting, obsession, drugs, sexual perversity and shady people soon become part of their daily life. When Mark finally realises that his world has become insane and that the child’s life is in danger, he is too far involved to withdraw. Finally, he jumps off, only learning that a borderline doesn’t take no for an answer..

Trash is based on a true story. The author turned his experience with a borderline woman into an ironical, dark novel. One moment a comical tragedy, the other moment a tragical comedy, narrating in a very confrontating manner how a caring mother is capable of destroying both herself and her infant.

‘How’s that you only have one fragrance of shower gel in your bathroom?’, she barked at me while entering my living, wearing my bathrobe, head bowed, rubbing her hair with my towel. ‘My ex used to have a whole collection. Real men have a choise of fragrances in their shower.’
Real men wash their body with bleach. Except for their dick, that they leave for the girl next door to suck until it’s shiny and clean. It was on the tip of my tongue. Why didn’t I have the guts to just say it?

Hitler’s Son

April 30th 1945. Berlin is destroyed and surrounded by russian troups, hungry for victory, revenge and german blood. Within only a few days, a young woman witnessed her husband being shot and her neighbour hanging himself, before being raped by russian soldiers and kidnapped by two high ranked german military men. In an underground bunker, Adolf Hitler and his entourage realize that the end is near. Hitler is determined never to let himself being captured by the russians and commits suicide, together with his wife Eva Braun.

January 23th 1965. Two young aircraft mechanics steal a Lockheed Neptune from the dutch naval airbase of Valkenburg. Although they lack flying experience, they manage to get the plane airborne. Only a few minutes later though, they crash it in the North Sea. No one understands what made these fine young men do such a thing, since they must have known that there was no chance whatsoever that they could ever land the plane safely or survive this deed.

A somewhat eccentric man moves into a manor in the dunes. He spends his days hiking at the beach and in the dunes, leaving the villagers wondering how he can afford his costy house and what he does for a living. During one of his strolls, the man meets a woman from the village. They get acquainted and the woman shows him a photograph her father once found at the beach decades ago. The picture appears insignificant, until the man discovers the mind blowing truth behind it.

Three different events in three different eras soon appear to be connected in a peculiar way. A man who learned to even mistrust facts is to disclose facts that are too shocking to be trusted. He decides to chase them anyway and soon finds out that someone is not amused by his curiousity, causing a sequence of terrible events.

Hitler’s Son is a historical fact-fiction thriller, set on the aftermath of World War II. Freedom is reclaimed and the nazis seem to be defeated, but are they really? The line between facs and assumption appears thinner than ever.

Berkhey: a village swallowed by history

Berkheide is a reserve in the dunes between Scheveningen and Katwijk on the dutch coast, well known by many nature lovers. Few people though know that the name of the area can be traced back tot Berkhey, a fishing village that was an outcast in the late Middle Ages and eventually was swept away by the end of the sixteenth century.

In the fourteenth century the Lord of Voorschoten, Gillis van Cralingen, came to the area of Wassenaar, the Netherlands. In 1396 he established the village of Berkhey in the dunes. ‘Berk’ means birch, a tree that was common in that area. ‘Hey’ means moorland, suggesting the new born village was meant for cattle breeding.

But the truth was that the Lord had planned a fishing village. Fishery was very successful these days in the surrounding villages Scheveningen and Katwijk aan Zee. Van Cralingen wanted his share. He would give anyone willing to work as a fisherman land to build a house. In exchange he demanded some of the catch and four percent of the yield. The plan turned out to be fortunate, leading to serious rivalry between Berkhey and the surrounding towns.

According to the Society Old Katwijk, the people of Berkhey were mostly heretics and scum. But the competitive situation might have lead to that assumption. From 1412, it was prohibited for people from Katwijk to settle in Berkhey or even to communicate with inhabitants of the nearby village.

Little is know about what happened to Berkhey after that. Quite a few heavy floods, like the Elizabeth Flood of 1421 and the All Saints Day Flood of 1570, swallowed parts of Katwijk and Scheveningen. It is likely to assume that Berkhey was stricken as well. The register of Berkhey fishing boats in that period recorded nine so called pincks in 1475 and only two left in 1515, a down bound trend.

Berkhey is pictured one more time in a preserved 1598 drawing of a stranded sperm whale. The village is on a french map dated 1622, but after that, history erased the unfortunate fishing village. The fact that derivates from Berkhey still are quite common today as surnames in Katwijk, supposes that the last inhabitants of Berkhey fled to the nearby village.

Rudolf Diesel: the vanishing

In early fall of 1913, german inventor Rudolf Diesel disappears during a night crossing from Belgium to England. One moment he is having dinner with two business compagnions, next he goes to his cabin for the night, never to be seen again. The official explanation is suicide, but some weird happenings after indicate something very different.

Sunday evening September 29th 1913. World peace is at geopardy, but no-one has ever heard of world war. On the belgian coast the last sunlight disappears at the horizon and the SS Dresden has just set out for Harwich. The first class passengers have joined dinner, the steam machine makes the table silver tinkle smoothly and three gentleman in a corner of the dining room just finished their main course. One of them obtained fame and wealth by inventing a revolutionary engine that will eventually replace the steam machine.
Rudolf Diesel is aged 55 and has a friendly face with glasses. His career is impressive, he is worth 2.5 million dollars (which would be around 62 million today) and about to retire. Together with his friends and business partners Luckmann and Carels Diesel is on his way to London to attend the annual board meeting of Consolidated Diesel Engine Manufacturers.

Banned from Paris
Rudolf Christian Karl Diesel is born in Paris on 18 March 1858 as the second child of german immigrants Elise Strobel and Theodor Diesel. Theodor, who was born in Augsburg, is a bookbinder in Paris, where he meets Elise, from Nuremberg. Later, he starts trading leatherware.
Due to the Franco-Prussian War, the Diesel family become unwanted in France, so they move to London. Shortly after, his parents send 12 year old Rudolf back to Augsburg, to move in with his uncle and aunt. His oncle is a maths teacher, the industrial revolution is ongoing and little Rudolf decides he wants a technical career. After highschool, he joins a technical education in Augsburg and the technical universitiy of Munich. One of his teachers there is Carl von Linde, a brilliant engineer and inventor of cooling technology, who will eventually, in the year Diesel disappears mysteriously, wins the Nobel Prize in Physics.

After graduating in 1880, Diesel returns to Paris. He comes across Von Linde and starts working for him. Three years later, he meets Martha Flasche and they become the parensts of three children. In 1890 the family moves to Berlin and Diesel gets a high position at the Linde company.

Instant succes
Working on the early cooling technique, Diesel starts thinking about alternatives for the steam machine and combustion engine. He believes the efficiency of these machines is far too low and he invents a system of ignition by pressure. As the combustion takes longer and happens under higher pressure, the output turns out to be much higher.
In 1892 he registers his invention and armament manufacturer Krupps turns out to be an investor. One year later, the first prototype runs on arachis oil. The huge machine has a 22 centimeter bore and 40 centimeter stroke. In 1895, it has an efficiency of 16,6 percent.
The next year, Diesel starts working on a revisited version, achieving 26,2 percent out of petrolium. THis machine is showcased during a 1889 exposition in Munich. According to the Grande Encyclopedie Practique de Mechanique et d’Electricité from 1910, the efficiency and simplicity make Diesel’s machine an instant success. Diesel starts making money by selling manufacturing licencies. His invention is used in generators, locomotives, shipping, factories and automotive, turning Diesel into a wealthy man by the turn of the century. In 1912, more than 70,000 diesel engines are operational worldwide.

Disappeared
However, fortune doesn’t last forever.Autumn 1913, Rudolf Diesel and two business friends take the nightboat to England, on their way to a board meeting and an opening ceremony of a new factory. Diesel doesn’t make the crossing. He doesn’t show up for breakfast and when the ferry docks in Harwich, the inventor has disappeared without a trace. The mystery get headlines all over the world. The New York Times quote one of his travelling companions, George Carels, director of Diesel’s company: “After leaving Antwerp, we had dinner together. Next, we strolled on deck, chatting and smoking. Mister Diesel was well tempered. By 10 pm, the lights of Vlissingen in view, I suggested it was time to go to bed. Mister Diesel agreed and all three of us went to their cabins.”
According to Carels, Diesel seemed to hesitate at the entrance of his cabin. He walked back to Carels, shook his hand, wished him good night and said ‘See you in the morning’. “Those were the very last words he ever spoke to me”, Carels remembers.
Next morning, Diesel is missing at the breakfast table. Carels and Luckmann go to his cabin and knock on the door. No-one answers. They open the door, only to find Diesel’s bed unslept. “The blanket was folded and his nightgown was on top. His keys were in his bag and his watch hang in a position so he could read it from his bed”, Carels witnesses. “Everything seemed neat in his cabin. I could not tell if there was money missing, since I did not know how much he had on him. But it did not look as if someone had been through his things. But since hir arrival voucher had not been handed in, we knew for shure he had not disembarked. He was not on board either, so he had to have fallen overboard during the night.”

Heavy debts
Carels repeats Diesel seemed happy and cheerful during the last night. “If it wasn’t an accident, something must have gone wrong in his mind. He never drunk much, didn’t smoke and didn’t suffer from vertigo, as far as I know.” Still, Diesel had told some friends earlier that he would sometimes go through periods of insomnia, making him walk around all night, dead tired. Business worries and extreme work stress had damaged his health.
Two weeks after his disappearance, new facts show up. His presumed wealth is doubted by german newspapers, writing that Diesel left his family with heavy debts. It is rumoured that Diesel invested his money in unsuccessful companies and some newspapers suggest this was reason for Diesel to disappear one way or another.
On 14 October 1913, Diesel’s creditors meet up in Munich. They calculate his debts around 375,000 dollar, with only 10,000 dollar assets to cover up. On top of that, his real estate is booked for much more that its actual value.

Weird article
In March 1914,half a year after Diesel’s disappearance, Münchener Abend Zeitung publishes a weird article. According to the newspaper, some letters, received in Germany, would prove that Diesel started a new life in Canada. Since the paper doesn’t concretise its story, the rumour should not be taken too seriously. But by that time, it is obvious Diesel had some good reasons to vanish. It has always been unclear wether this body was ever recovered. A dead, well dressed man is found in the estuary of the Schelde river near Vlissingen, eleven days after Diesel’s disappearance. By the shape and age, it could have been Diesel. One day earlier, near Norway, another found body is suspected to be the missing engineer’s. The sailors won’t take the body on board, because it is too decomposed. But they do take some artifacs from this body and it is rumoured that Diesel’s son Eugen recognized them. But if it is true that Diesel wanted to escape from his creditors, Eugen had a good reason to make the world believe that his father was dead.
It is also rumoured that, shortly before setting off to England, handed a bag to his wife Martha, instructing her to open it a week later. So she does after the missing, finding 200,000 marks in cash. In his agenda, Diesel marked 29 September, the day of his disappearance, with a black cross.

History became legend, legend became myth. Tolkien could have written that line on Rudolf Diesel. True, it is most likely that financial trouble moved Diesel to kill himself that fateful night on the North Sea. But it is an attractive idea to believe that he fled to Canada, from where he has watched the uprising success of his invention from a distance. Fortunately, it is impossible that he lived to see the disaster called Dieselgate.

Conspiracy theories
Every mystery cries out for conspiracy theories. Even today, there are people who don’t believe Diesel’s passing was suicide, nor that he fled from his creditors. They say Diesel was thrown overboard and that there are two possible motives for murder. The oil industry had reasons to want him dead, because the diesel engine was so economical that they feared for their business. Hardly believable, since no-one ever killed Elon Musk so far.
Slightly more believable is the theory that Diesel travelled to England to sell his knowledge to the british navy. The first world war was forthcoming and diesel engines were crucial for german submarines. The german secret service might have stopped him from selling it to the English.

Influencers: clowns of the internet

The hospitality lounge opens its doors. A dozen girls enter the room. Most of them wearing a Picasso-cap or some rediculous, but probably trendy hat over their duckfaces. Some are wearing fur coats, they all look like they are desperate to defecate. Or else, they might think of themselves as extremely important. The lady by my side pokes me, nodding at this circus: “A fortune on handbags is entering”, she grins. Here are the social influencers.

We’re at the press launch of a new car, meet the social influencers. We, the conventional press, are paid by our audience for our professional review on the new car. These clowns get paid by the manufacturer to attend the event. I must admid, their graft is well hidden: whilst their host is proudly explaining his latest product, all they care about is their product placed smartphones. Decency is more expensive.

Instagram and YouTube

I have been in this business for almost a quarter of a century. It strikes me that a branche that used to be as pregressive as whitchhunters, completely turns around. Recently I went to the press launch of a new model of a brand that is mainly bought by elderies. In our company, there was a girl with an Instagram-account, but without a drivers licence. Her boyfriend was on the same trip, since he had a YouTube-account. In the end, ther lady posted ten photographs on het Instagram-account. Nine of them showing the hotel and one showing the car. Hashtag the brand. Unfortunately spelled wrong. That’s what you payed two plane tickets, a hotel room and catering for.

Pathetic

Social influencers. It rather pathetic that so many young people seem to need them to tell what tot like. An entire generation, unable to decide for themselves. Every generation has its losers, but if it comes to the number of followers these influencers claim, this generation is completely retarded.

Duckfaced girls

I understand that selling lipgloss or sanitary pads can be helped by social influencers. Their audience just had their first menstrual flow and are dying to appear on Tinder like a russian callgirl. But they are years away from buying their first car. Car brand seem not to realise that. Just like they don’t know that followers are for sale. A dutch importer of a main stream branche is told by its manufacturer to spend 80 percent of its PR-budget on duckfaced girls. A premium brand considers to stop delivering test cars to motoring magazines because they are too critical. They prefer vloggers and social influencers to review their cars. They don’t have a clue, but say exactly as they are told, to a price.

Pay peanuts, get monkeys

In the end, it is all about market mechanism. Readers refuse to pay for content, but those who make content, still have a mortgage and shoppings to pay for. Thus, producers start paying for their content and audience have to cope with journalists telling them what the manufacturers tell them what to tell.

You pay peanuts, you get monkeys. Or girls with duckfaces. I truly hope that their advice will help you to decide on which new car you will spend your next 40 grand.

Influencers: like me or shut up

Internet is a great stage for anyone to climb on. The new democracy is a blessing, but it has a dark side. Self-announced stars are begging for comments, but are incapable of dealing with it.

It’s business as usual on YouTube: teenage girls in their parential bedroom, dressed up like russian prostitutes, begging for likes. Occasionally one breaks through and turns into exactly the kind of person that pushes the weak underdogs into sorrow by influencing them: fill your lips, botox your eyelids; be like me. And buy my sponsor’s mascara. Like me like I love myself.

It has become business as usual on YouTube: young girls dressed up like russian prostitutes in their parantial bedroom, begging for likes. Ocasionally one of them breaks through and turns out to be just like all those bags of bones from the catwalk, influencing weak teenagers to do like they do: fill your lips, botox your eyebrows, be like me. Buy my advertiser’s mascara. And like me like I love myself.

The fine art of writing is suffering from devaluation, too. As a fanatical reader and professional journalist, I am convinced there have to be quite some undiscovered authors out there. I started to visit some facebookgroups where these people are supposed to hang around and support each other, only to discover that writing talent and self reflection are qualities that usually leave the room hand in hand.

‘You are obviously not here to make new friends’

Every now and then I bump into something with potential quality, but those texts disappear quickly under new postings by people who are on the edge of publishing their first bestseller, previewing bits of it, asking the others how they like what they read. Some time ago, I started answering some of them, avoiding the very worst. I drafted some of these fragments by removing the spelling mistakes and reconstructing the worst sentences.

You won’t believe the amount of abuse that came over me. ‘You are obviously not here to make new friends’, someone wrote back (absolutely true, by the way). ‘If you don’t like it, why read it?’. ‘Who is that arrogant motherf*cker?’ In shock, I scrolled through the reactions. After a while, it occurred to me that amongst all these self called bestseller-writers I was the only one to ever react. No reactions, no likes whatsoever.

Neither of these about to break through bestseller-writers are open for constructive critisism or advice, I learned. No way they can deal with that. They ask for comments, but they wish for confirmation. Confirmation of exactly what they bear so badly: writing talent. Read me and like me, or else close your mouth.

Like me or shut up.

Blackface: how a nation goes nuts

I don’t care about Blackface. That’s odd, since I usually have a rather clear opinion about anything. Still, although everyone goes wild on Blackface, I can’t be bothered. Yet, I do have an opinion on people who have an opinion on Blackface.

I believe that people who bother about Blackface are lacking something in their lives. Some real problems to worry about, like they have in Raqqa, for instance. Perhaps people who bother about Blackface should go to Syria and do some reconstruction labour. And have a decent reconciliation shag.

People who believe that Blackface means racism, are troubled. People who believe being traumatized by slavery, 154 years after its abolition, are nuts. I might as well hate the Germans for demolishing my village in WW2, only 77 years ago.

Yet, people who are pro-Blackface can be as pathetic. A picture of Saint Nicholas with a swastika on his hat is all around the internet. Some pro-Blackface activist got a sheet of paper, stole his child’s pencils and made a drawing of a children’s hero with Hitler’s face.

Is that pathetic? It sure is. Is it bad? Well, drawing can have this therapeutic effect: not bad. A fool making an ugly drawing is hardly worse than a fool making himself a cup of tea. In the old days, his drawing would never have left the kitchen table of this miserable creature.

It did get bad though through all these angry people on social media, tweeting and retweeting that poor drawing from the kitchen table into the entire world. Burning oil should never be extinguished with water, since water spreads the fire. The lonesome pro-Blackface activist is a drop of oil. All these angry twitter-people are water. Thanks to their tweets and retweets, the miserable hatred of a frustrated loner gets a huge stage. Through their social platforms, racial polarization reaches the next level. Our right populist politicians are most grateful.

Burning oil should not be extinguished with water, but covered with sand. Or else, let it burn until it stops.

Blackface? Bury the discussion.

A Day at the Beach

At some 18 kilometers out, there’s a group of wind turbines. Visual pollution, according to some, mostly beachclub owners and hotelkeepers. But spending a summer’s day at the Katwijk beach will teach you that the real pollution is a lot closer by than those hardly visible turbines.

“Do you serve fresh orange juice?”
“Certainly, sir,” the waiter nods. He enters my order in his smartphone and walks to the bar. I lean backward and start observing the smoking and sweating crowd. Although it’s fairly AM, all seats of Beachclub 14 are taken. It’s Sunday and the weather report promised temeratures well beyond 30 degrees Celsius for this afternoon. Next to me, I notice a group of mid-aged men. Hard to tell what brought them together; I don’t believe they’re heart surgeons. But they do have something in common: they all, all ten, now I count them, a large collection of tattoos on their massive bodies. I try to read the pictures and words. Runic and gothic letters, chinese characters: cultural reconciliation starts on the bodies of simple minds. One of them has a massive stetson-wearing scull covering his back. Between his mates shoulder blades I perceive some creature even Tolkien and J.K. Rowling could not have invented after a night on booze and drugs.

“Fresh juice, sir.” The waiter puts a glass on my table. I say thanks, take out the straw and take a sup. Is this what they call fresh juice? If you would put this in a spectrometer, the screen would show a Minute Maid commercial. Or rather, some budget brand. I check the menu once more: it really says ‘fresh’ orange juice. Besides, at this price (4,75 euros) you’d expect the club’s owner to squeeze the oranges at your table, his wife rubbing your shoulders with coconut oil and the local bigband playing your favourite music live at your table.

But I don’t believe the boss is in today. He must be attending some kind of workshop, learning what music is appropriate at beachclubs. The boom-boom-crap from the outside speakers is hardly standable. Is this their way to empty tables for new customers as quickly as possible? One thing is for sure: it doesn’t help getting rid of the heart surgeons. They swing their sweaty bodies to the music, waving their beer bottles and cigarettes in the air. Only then I realise the music is not from the beachclub’s speakers, but from their gettoblaster. Beachclub 14 is tough enough to charge me 4.75 for a tiny glass of Minute Maid, but for a bunch of tattooed drunk, they switch off their own music.

I decide that I’ve seen enough. I pay for my Minute Maid and even tip the child that served it, since I know that from all beachclubs around, the wages here are by far the lowest. I down what’s left of my juice and head for the beach. Like at the beachclub, the people here are kind enough to share their tobacco and music with me. But at least, it’s not as loud as the gettoblaster of the cardiologists.

After a while, I hardly perceive it any more, because a massive speedboat starts running in circles just in front of me. The skipper, who looks like a perfect match with the cardiologists, misses some swimming kids only by meters. The life guard looks away, though. Only 75 years ago, brave men used this very beach as a starting point for their 150 km crossing to England in small canoes, risking being shot by german patrol boats. This guy takes himself for a hero revving around in a floating moped.

I grab my things and go home. Perhaps I’ll come back tonight for a walk on the beach, when only their empty beer cans, filled nappies and cigarette butts are left.
I can’t wait for autumn to come.