The The House of the Dancing Waters spectacle, with its annual programme in the city, brings together world-class artists, an authentic all-in-all show in the style of Cirque du Soleil, where anything can happen. For the price of each ticket, this troupe of clowns could do no less. And Roberto’s visit to Macau doesn’t come without having to turn a blind eye to some investments, even at a time when saving money was on our minds and a sign of a new trip. 160 euros and the stunt is done.
The predictability of the weather in Macau doesn’t fool even the most skeptical and, contrary to expectations, on rainy days there is a greater flow of people on transport. So on that Saturday, we prepared ourselves and left early.
It used to be my custom to check things over and over again until my conscience was clear, but in circumstances that require added responsibilities, this paranoia of mine is magnified. Since I’d been given the seemingly simple task of keeping the tickets, I took every new opportunity to make sure I still had them.
Then I start rummaging around inside my rucksack and, after turning it inside out for the twentieth time, to my surprise I couldn’t find the aforementioned tickets. Anxiety began to take hold of me and my imagination was fuelled by a thousand and one possible scenarios that could justify the loss of those all-important tickets.
We were already at the second stop, the last one before leaving the peninsula, with the doors open, when I decided we should get off the bus. There was no doubt in my mind.
“Run, passion, run!” were the words that triggered an unbridled rush in the opposite direction. We were two penguins in a marathon and one misplaced foot would be enough to scatter us on the pavement and give those who were present an unforgettable spectacle.
I was still completing the last bend when, from the stop, I heard Roberto shouting “I found them, I found them, they were on the ground!”. There was a moment’s pause to catch our breath, which lasted a few seconds because, lucky for us, we could already see the new bus approaching.
The predictability of the weather in Macau doesn’t fool even the most skeptical and, contrary to expectations, on rainy days there is a greater flow of people on transport. So on that Saturday, we prepared ourselves and left early.
It used to be my custom to check things over and over again until my conscience was clear, but in circumstances that require added responsibilities, this paranoia of mine is magnified. Since I’d been given the seemingly simple task of keeping the tickets, I took every new opportunity to make sure I still had them.
Then I start rummaging around inside my rucksack and, after turning it inside out for the twentieth time, to my surprise I couldn’t find the aforementioned tickets. Anxiety began to take hold of me and my imagination was fuelled by a thousand and one possible scenarios that could justify the loss of those all-important tickets.
We were already at the second stop, the last one before leaving the peninsula, with the doors open, when I decided we should get off the bus. There was no doubt in my mind.
“Run, passion, run!” were the words that triggered an unbridled rush in the opposite direction. We were two penguins in a marathon and one misplaced foot would be enough to scatter us on the pavement and give those who were present an unforgettable spectacle.
I was still completing the last bend when, from the stop, I heard Roberto shouting “I found them, I found them, they were on the ground!”. There was a moment’s pause to catch our breath, which lasted a few seconds because, lucky for us, we could already see the new bus approaching.
