This is a story from my past and should really be called: “The time an apartment exploded at a hotel in Portugal where I was staying.” But before I dive into it , let me give you a little context. At the time I was around 18 or 19 years old. I had just relocated from my hometown Bollnas to Stockholm, the capital of Sweden. I'd worked a variety of odd jobs, including stints at coffee shops and bars. However, one particular coffee shop in a cool part of Stockholm stood out. It was a night coffee shop, and the owner, a woman who started it, hired me to work the night shifts. Looking back, I can't believe I worked there alone without any security, except for a mysterious item hidden behind the counter. (I think it was some sort of teaser spray.) The coffee shop became a late-night meet up hub for taxi drivers, various authors, artists, and night owls. Little did I know that the owner's daughter, entangled in a cult-like sect, would soon take over. She tried to bully me out of the job and filled the place with sect members. Soon, even the local taxi drivers began suspecting I was part of the cult. It was a weird time. During this time, I met people who had been brainwashed by different cults and organisations. My curiosity got the better of me, and I began reading about cults and the stories of those who had left them. Finding a place to rent in the heart of Stockholm was challenging even in those days. Eventually, I stumbled upon a small, cute apartment just a couple of blocks away from the coffee shop. The apartment owner told me the previous tenant had left suddenly, leaving behind a strange collection of items, including chainsaws and axes. Plus, he had accumulated a mountain of debt, owing thousands to various banks. The situation was kind of weird, but I felt desperate for a place to stay. This was also a time when mobile phones weren't as common as they are now. Instead, we relied on old-school phone booths to make calls. I also couldn't install a phone line in the apartment due to the previous tenant's issues. One day, as I strolled through Stockholm, I saw a sign from a company called Gudrun Sjoden. They were looking for models to go to Portugal for two weeks, and they didn't just want professional models; they wanted everyday folks. Without thinking twice, I applied and got the job, quitting the coffee shop. We went to Algarve, which is in the southern part of Portugal. It was my first encounter with Fado music (Fado means fate), the country's traditional tunes, and the sandy beaches, which were simply breathtaking. We explored orange farms and mediaeval villages while working on the photo shoots. During this time, we stayed at a hotel close to the beach. My model friend and I were on the eighth floor, and we had a late start the next day, so we decided to go out and enjoy the local nightlife, which resulted in us getting a bit "smashed." Unbeknownst to us, the couple living a few floors below us had accidentally left the gas on in their apartment. When they returned home, they lit a cigarette, and the resulting explosion was nothing short of catastrophic. But the most incredible part is that they survived, just with some injuries. Now, here's where the gratitude kicks in. Despite what happened, the couple below miraculously lived to tell the tale. It was a good reminder to take life one day at a time and cherish each moment. And as I reflect on this experience, I can't help but feel the urge to return to that beautiful place one day. Until next time, take care, and remember to live each day to the fullest. Catch ya later! 🌟🏖️ Yenny |
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