Yes, this is a rant. Burying it in a day log won't help, but I've got to do it.
The night of San Juan (Saint John, June 23) is not a night to go out, for me. You see, us barbaric spaniards have the tradition of burning and blowing things up this night (kinda like a 4th of July).
Children of all ages take the streets with pyrotechnic devices of mayhem bought by their fathers and well... it's one of the busiest nights on hospitals.
I'm not against fireworks (well, I don't like anything powder related, but I kinda tolerate them synchronized to music and in hands of professionals), but these things are dangerous. I still cannot understand how parents give their sons and daughters money (more money than you'd believe) to buy things that explode, lend them lighters and tell them to enjoy themselves. Some of them don't even care to watch over them. And it's perfectly normal and they do it in the middle of the street.
It all began a few days ago. I was with some friends in a nice bar and then BOOM. And BOOM. Whoa! That was really a biggie! There was this kid (6 or 7 years old), with a cigarrete blowing fuses in the best Hannibal Smith tradition. Later we learn his parents are in the table next to us. Well, it reminded me that San Juan is here, again.
So here I am now, in my bedroom 2:40am of the next day, still hearing explosions. My grandmother came for a visit and we had to escort her back home in daddy's car so no teenage Nero's stray rocket (yeah, there's major artillery here) goes wrong.
Drats.