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| He has no idea what he's in for. |
Friday, July 15, 2011
An unfortunate truth.
French baguettes and TMJ really don't mix well. So much jaw pain...
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Linguistic Escapades: In which there are few pictures, many words and a very happy language nerd
Yesterday, I spent wandering through the malls, metros and midways of Paris intent on several missions. (Today, my feet look upon me as no less than a gulag jailer and have been begging for reprieve. They didn't get it.) I needed to get a new power supply for my laptop. Nick and I have been making do with one between us for many moons now, little did I know that he planned to take his laptop to work every day for the duration of our stay.
We live within about a ten minute walk of Les Halles. Formerly the central market place for Paris, it is now a multi-level, underground, labyrinthine commercial center (ie mall) which exists on top of an even more confusing, sprawling and enormous metro station. I'm fairly certain that somewhere buried deep in the deepest, darkest corner of the whole thing, the Minotaur is still hanging around and cursing that France doesn't have Netflix. Picking up a power supply was fairly painless though. I'd seen the place I was going before and got in and out pretty quickly, if not particularly cheaply. I did experience my first linguistic snobbery for this trip while checking out.
When I walked up to the cashier he asked me something that I didn't understand. My go to response is, "Je parle un petit francais," or "I speak a little french," (don't judge me for my spelling) because I can frequently understand people, it's just producing language that is hard. Regardless, the gentleman didn't give me the time of day. He rolled his eyes, bagged my purchase and generally sent me on my way feeling inadequate and burdensome. Joy. It was not how I had hoped to start my day.
Luckily, later while on a mission for the "tourist" market, Rue Mouffetard, I stopped for lunch and had a much better experience. I was able to let my waiter know that I spoke little French, to understand the French he spoke to me and had a delicious meal of chicken tikka massala. I cannot thank that waiter enough for his patience, especially given that he was extremely busy and did not have a lot of time to be helping foreigners. I got my bill during a quiet moment and was even able to inquire, in French, how to request the check. Another gentleman stepped in and exuberantly explained it to me for which I thanked him and then walked off down the street with my brain flooding with the endorphins of a successful multilingual interaction.
I have no idea if this happens to other people, but when I get the opportunity to communicate with someone while speaking another language, no matter how broken or stilted it may be on either side, I walk away with my head and heart lit up like hot air balloons in the dark. It is perhaps the most amazing natural high that I know.
After lunch, I headed for Rue Mouffetard, which my guidebook says is where locals send tourists , while they send travelers to Rue Montorgueil. The street that we live on turns into Rue Montorgueil in about two city blocks and it is the most beautiful, messy, wondrous market street. It will get it's own blog post soon, but I needed vegetables and wanted to see the more "picturesque" market at Mouffetard, just for something different.
Perhaps it was because I did not get there until later in the afternoon, but even had I had my camera, I probably would not have taken many pictures. Mouffetard was picturesque in a sterilized, clean, empty and particularly boring way. While Montorgueil is constantly crawling with Parisians, Mouffetard was rather empty and felt like a diorama that had been set up for show. I did stop at a stall and get some vegetables for dinner. This time, my cashier was a kid, I'd guess 15 or 16. He said something, I told him that I don't speak much French and then asked if he spoke Spanish or English. To both he laughingly replied no and then, through gestures, the French I know and his providing words when I couldn't quite remember them, I managed to explain that I am here because my husband is working, I do have two bags with me and thank you very much for your help. The lights went off in my head again as I wandered off.
I've used Spanish a couple times when people didn't know English. In truth, I would rather speak Spanish than English and will sometimes ask about that first. I had one poor gentleman speaking both English and Spanish to me. Apparently, in my faltering French, I had unwittingly slipped in some Spanish, but I think he could tell that part of my accent was English.
Right now, my head is a complete unordered mess of words, accents and grammar bits, so if these posts are even remotely intelligible in any language at all, I'm counting it a net win. We won't even talk about spelling.
We live within about a ten minute walk of Les Halles. Formerly the central market place for Paris, it is now a multi-level, underground, labyrinthine commercial center (ie mall) which exists on top of an even more confusing, sprawling and enormous metro station. I'm fairly certain that somewhere buried deep in the deepest, darkest corner of the whole thing, the Minotaur is still hanging around and cursing that France doesn't have Netflix. Picking up a power supply was fairly painless though. I'd seen the place I was going before and got in and out pretty quickly, if not particularly cheaply. I did experience my first linguistic snobbery for this trip while checking out.
When I walked up to the cashier he asked me something that I didn't understand. My go to response is, "Je parle un petit francais," or "I speak a little french," (don't judge me for my spelling) because I can frequently understand people, it's just producing language that is hard. Regardless, the gentleman didn't give me the time of day. He rolled his eyes, bagged my purchase and generally sent me on my way feeling inadequate and burdensome. Joy. It was not how I had hoped to start my day.
Luckily, later while on a mission for the "tourist" market, Rue Mouffetard, I stopped for lunch and had a much better experience. I was able to let my waiter know that I spoke little French, to understand the French he spoke to me and had a delicious meal of chicken tikka massala. I cannot thank that waiter enough for his patience, especially given that he was extremely busy and did not have a lot of time to be helping foreigners. I got my bill during a quiet moment and was even able to inquire, in French, how to request the check. Another gentleman stepped in and exuberantly explained it to me for which I thanked him and then walked off down the street with my brain flooding with the endorphins of a successful multilingual interaction.
 |
| This has nothing to do with the post. I'm just trying to break up all the words a bit. Brains like visuals. |
After lunch, I headed for Rue Mouffetard, which my guidebook says is where locals send tourists , while they send travelers to Rue Montorgueil. The street that we live on turns into Rue Montorgueil in about two city blocks and it is the most beautiful, messy, wondrous market street. It will get it's own blog post soon, but I needed vegetables and wanted to see the more "picturesque" market at Mouffetard, just for something different.
Perhaps it was because I did not get there until later in the afternoon, but even had I had my camera, I probably would not have taken many pictures. Mouffetard was picturesque in a sterilized, clean, empty and particularly boring way. While Montorgueil is constantly crawling with Parisians, Mouffetard was rather empty and felt like a diorama that had been set up for show. I did stop at a stall and get some vegetables for dinner. This time, my cashier was a kid, I'd guess 15 or 16. He said something, I told him that I don't speak much French and then asked if he spoke Spanish or English. To both he laughingly replied no and then, through gestures, the French I know and his providing words when I couldn't quite remember them, I managed to explain that I am here because my husband is working, I do have two bags with me and thank you very much for your help. The lights went off in my head again as I wandered off.
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| Tomatoes and rosemary from the stand, fresh bread from a bakery and a can of beer that I plan to use in chicken tomorrow, again left by our Norwegian friends. |
I've used Spanish a couple times when people didn't know English. In truth, I would rather speak Spanish than English and will sometimes ask about that first. I had one poor gentleman speaking both English and Spanish to me. Apparently, in my faltering French, I had unwittingly slipped in some Spanish, but I think he could tell that part of my accent was English.
Right now, my head is a complete unordered mess of words, accents and grammar bits, so if these posts are even remotely intelligible in any language at all, I'm counting it a net win. We won't even talk about spelling.
La vie parisien
First things first, I decided that the blog needed an updated look to go with it's new locale. I think I'm liking it.
Today, I'm taking it easy. The creeping crud that I was battling on Sunday was greatly improved by the following morning, but it's clear that all the new bugs are having a field day with my immune system. I also spent almost the entirety of yesterday out walking about and exploring, so between the two, today seems like a good day to spend getting caught up on some blog posts, writing some lesson plans and resting.
Being a die-hard traveler rather than tourist, I can be terrible about taking pictures. I loathe being one of 25 people in the same place, taking the same, blatantly inartistic shot just to end up with a low quality photo of something I could have a better representation of on a 25 cent postcard (though granted, in Europe it would probably be at least 75 cents). However, in the interests of those at home, I will be trying to take a few shots of the more interesting and less commonly photographed things.
Like our apartment for instance. There is a narrow, dark, winding staircase which smells of mildew and old wood, leading up to our surprisingly spacious, two bedroom flat, on the 2nd floor (European style: ground floor, 1st floor, 2nd floor).
While generally maintaining a much more classic feel throughout the rest of the space.
The rest of the flat is not particularly interesting, though I can say that a furnished apartment in Paris far outstrips renting a furnished apartment in Nicaragua. The cookware is a dream! All good, heavy bottomed pots and pans, nice sharp knives, tart tins, mixing bowls, ovenware and no scorpions randomly walking in to dine. But at a price difference of $4,500 a month, some dinner guests with extra legs were probably par for the course in Nica.
More pictures:
You'll have to pardon some of the crummy photography. My point-and-shoot has seen all the humidity, sand and salt that it can bear and I'm still learning Nick's camera. Anyway, I'm going to divide up some of today's thoughts into a few different posts, so that will be all for this one.
Today, I'm taking it easy. The creeping crud that I was battling on Sunday was greatly improved by the following morning, but it's clear that all the new bugs are having a field day with my immune system. I also spent almost the entirety of yesterday out walking about and exploring, so between the two, today seems like a good day to spend getting caught up on some blog posts, writing some lesson plans and resting.
Being a die-hard traveler rather than tourist, I can be terrible about taking pictures. I loathe being one of 25 people in the same place, taking the same, blatantly inartistic shot just to end up with a low quality photo of something I could have a better representation of on a 25 cent postcard (though granted, in Europe it would probably be at least 75 cents). However, in the interests of those at home, I will be trying to take a few shots of the more interesting and less commonly photographed things.
Like our apartment for instance. There is a narrow, dark, winding staircase which smells of mildew and old wood, leading up to our surprisingly spacious, two bedroom flat, on the 2nd floor (European style: ground floor, 1st floor, 2nd floor).
This is the entry way; it hasn't yet become become
a foreboding passage to the other world.
The flat itself is, as I mentioned before, is quite comfortable, if a bit confused about its decorative purpose. The dining room is dominated by this erm...interesting piece of art:
While poking around the other day, I made a $5.00 discovery. In the bottom of this antique heating device (I feel woefully ignorant about what I should call it. Fire place? Wall heater? Miscellaneous producer of radiant energy?) is hidden a secret stash of boozy items: what looks like sake, a raspberry liqueur and a bottle of plums, very drunk on brandy. None of the items was in and of itself that exciting, but unless this is a common European storage place for the household liquor (and if so, why keep the other five bottles of alcohol in the kitchen?) it looked very much like someone was trying hard to hide it.
The rest of the flat is not particularly interesting, though I can say that a furnished apartment in Paris far outstrips renting a furnished apartment in Nicaragua. The cookware is a dream! All good, heavy bottomed pots and pans, nice sharp knives, tart tins, mixing bowls, ovenware and no scorpions randomly walking in to dine. But at a price difference of $4,500 a month, some dinner guests with extra legs were probably par for the course in Nica.
More pictures:
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| The second bedroom |
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| Living room, with fresh flowers and a Norwegian copy of Cosmo, courtesy of the previous tenants. |
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| Our view looking toward Boulevard Bonne Nouvelle to the north. |
Saturday, July 9, 2011
It's never too early for a parade.
It's four o'clock in the morning here in Paris and, still working through the joys of jetlag, I've been up for about two hours. I'll go back for a nap here in a bit, and hopefully end up actually getting up at some hour more reasonable by local standards. In the meantime, I thought I would throw some thoughts out into the ether.
Nick and I arrived in Paris around 1100 hours, without any events more interesting than our delayed flight. Through the miracles of melatonin, I actually caught about four hours of sleep as we cruised across the Atlantic and wasn't too much of a zombie as we caught a taxi and arrived at our rented flat. The landlord's rep was an accommodating middle-aged gentleman who stumbled through English as he walked us through the quirks and tricks of our new digs, which are quite comfortable, though stylistically reminiscent of something I would call, "Picasso's acid trip meets crocheted pot holders." Pictures will be forthcoming, but if you can't wait, check it out here.
We muddled our way through the rest of the day, poking around, unpacking, napping and finally collapsing at four o'clock, only to wake up in twelve hours. Saturday, we got up very early, made breakfast and a list of things to do before setting out to see what we could find. Our mission included power adapters (adaptateurs), groceries and monthly metro passes. It turns out that the street we live on runs straight down to the Seine, near the Louvre (about 20 minutes walk, if that) and is a bustling market street, replete with cheese shops, butchers, fruit stands, restaurants, cafes, boutiques, shoe stores, natural markets and everything else you could want. I have no doubts, that I could spend my entire trip within ten blocks and not get bored, if I chose to. We got to walk around and watch all the shops open, the markets put out their fruit and the street cleaners at their work, because really, very few people should be up at seven o'clock on a Saturday.
We killed time, waiting for shops to open by eating le petit dejeuner (breakfast) at one of the earlier opening cafes. A hot drink of your choice, orange juice and bread or croissant for 7€. It was delicious. While my life revolves primarily around food and drink, I will spare you the details this once and come back to the fabulous nuances of that simple meal in the future, as it was a more eventful day.
In spite of fighting some airline acquired bug (sore throat, fever and nausea), we found our way to a metro station and purchased our passes, got some staples for the kitchen and goodies to make a lovely dinner and then came home for a nap. While our spirits have been willing to overcome jetlag, the flesh is weak and fighting the creeping crud doesn't help. About three hours later, we struggled out of our comas and set out to find a place to buy electrical adapters.
We had our sights set on the seeming French equivalent of Best Buy (though we hoped the prices were not all as outrageous as those indicated online), but on our way, we passed a small hard/houseware shop that we decided looked promising, and probably cheaper. We wandered in and while we didn't see anything immediately, it became clear that we should probably whip out some of our killer French skills and ask. Luckily, being foggy from a cold, exhausted from jet lag and very dizzy (as a result of time-change induced rescheduling of taking some medications) helped to minimize my inhibitions, so I boldly walked up to a gentleman, with a strong, "Bonjour," and what ensued was something of a tag team effort between Nick and me, all in French which communicated our needs, with a surprising lack of confused looks from the store employee. We got what we wanted, paid, and walked out the door feeling quite accomplished, all missions successful for the day.
(I'm going to keep writing and hopefully assure you that not all posts will turn into the Slightly Mediocre American Novel.)
My last trip to Paris (six odd years ago) left me feeling very self conscious of not knowing French and with the general impression that the linguistic snobbery that Americans believe to be true of Parisians was no myth. So far this trip, I have been overwhelmingly impressed with the Parisian's willingness to help a person fumbling for French and what I have seen and experienced of the culture, I love. I'll elaborate on this more later, but right now, I am very happy to be where I am and am already dreading the day I have to go home.
Finally, regarding the title of the post. Again, four o'clock in the morning, Nick and I are both up fighting jetlag and the Parisians outside are making a, presumably, normal amount of racket at the restaurants and bars out on the main street. They are quiet most of the day, but party hard toward the wee hours of the morning. Closed windows keep the noise out quite well, but it's been warm, so we've opened them. After chuckling together about the raucous sounds of laughter that sound like nothing so much as a hysterical monkey, a huge clattering, along with whooping, shouts, whistling and singing begins. Upon investigation out the window, we discover that there is an entire cavalry parade, complete with sparkling covers, polished sabers and flowing cloaks, going down le Boulevaard de Bonne Novelle. At four in the morning. It lasted for about 15-20 minutes, and all we can guess is that it has something to do with upcoming Bastille Day festivities.
Anyway, now, after all of that nattering on, I will post this and leave you to read it (perhaps in installments?) at your leisure.
Au revoir y hasta luego!
Nick and I arrived in Paris around 1100 hours, without any events more interesting than our delayed flight. Through the miracles of melatonin, I actually caught about four hours of sleep as we cruised across the Atlantic and wasn't too much of a zombie as we caught a taxi and arrived at our rented flat. The landlord's rep was an accommodating middle-aged gentleman who stumbled through English as he walked us through the quirks and tricks of our new digs, which are quite comfortable, though stylistically reminiscent of something I would call, "Picasso's acid trip meets crocheted pot holders." Pictures will be forthcoming, but if you can't wait, check it out here.
We muddled our way through the rest of the day, poking around, unpacking, napping and finally collapsing at four o'clock, only to wake up in twelve hours. Saturday, we got up very early, made breakfast and a list of things to do before setting out to see what we could find. Our mission included power adapters (adaptateurs), groceries and monthly metro passes. It turns out that the street we live on runs straight down to the Seine, near the Louvre (about 20 minutes walk, if that) and is a bustling market street, replete with cheese shops, butchers, fruit stands, restaurants, cafes, boutiques, shoe stores, natural markets and everything else you could want. I have no doubts, that I could spend my entire trip within ten blocks and not get bored, if I chose to. We got to walk around and watch all the shops open, the markets put out their fruit and the street cleaners at their work, because really, very few people should be up at seven o'clock on a Saturday.
We killed time, waiting for shops to open by eating le petit dejeuner (breakfast) at one of the earlier opening cafes. A hot drink of your choice, orange juice and bread or croissant for 7€. It was delicious. While my life revolves primarily around food and drink, I will spare you the details this once and come back to the fabulous nuances of that simple meal in the future, as it was a more eventful day.
In spite of fighting some airline acquired bug (sore throat, fever and nausea), we found our way to a metro station and purchased our passes, got some staples for the kitchen and goodies to make a lovely dinner and then came home for a nap. While our spirits have been willing to overcome jetlag, the flesh is weak and fighting the creeping crud doesn't help. About three hours later, we struggled out of our comas and set out to find a place to buy electrical adapters.
We had our sights set on the seeming French equivalent of Best Buy (though we hoped the prices were not all as outrageous as those indicated online), but on our way, we passed a small hard/houseware shop that we decided looked promising, and probably cheaper. We wandered in and while we didn't see anything immediately, it became clear that we should probably whip out some of our killer French skills and ask. Luckily, being foggy from a cold, exhausted from jet lag and very dizzy (as a result of time-change induced rescheduling of taking some medications) helped to minimize my inhibitions, so I boldly walked up to a gentleman, with a strong, "Bonjour," and what ensued was something of a tag team effort between Nick and me, all in French which communicated our needs, with a surprising lack of confused looks from the store employee. We got what we wanted, paid, and walked out the door feeling quite accomplished, all missions successful for the day.
(I'm going to keep writing and hopefully assure you that not all posts will turn into the Slightly Mediocre American Novel.)
My last trip to Paris (six odd years ago) left me feeling very self conscious of not knowing French and with the general impression that the linguistic snobbery that Americans believe to be true of Parisians was no myth. So far this trip, I have been overwhelmingly impressed with the Parisian's willingness to help a person fumbling for French and what I have seen and experienced of the culture, I love. I'll elaborate on this more later, but right now, I am very happy to be where I am and am already dreading the day I have to go home.
Finally, regarding the title of the post. Again, four o'clock in the morning, Nick and I are both up fighting jetlag and the Parisians outside are making a, presumably, normal amount of racket at the restaurants and bars out on the main street. They are quiet most of the day, but party hard toward the wee hours of the morning. Closed windows keep the noise out quite well, but it's been warm, so we've opened them. After chuckling together about the raucous sounds of laughter that sound like nothing so much as a hysterical monkey, a huge clattering, along with whooping, shouts, whistling and singing begins. Upon investigation out the window, we discover that there is an entire cavalry parade, complete with sparkling covers, polished sabers and flowing cloaks, going down le Boulevaard de Bonne Novelle. At four in the morning. It lasted for about 15-20 minutes, and all we can guess is that it has something to do with upcoming Bastille Day festivities.
Anyway, now, after all of that nattering on, I will post this and leave you to read it (perhaps in installments?) at your leisure.
Au revoir y hasta luego!
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Rebirth!
The great part about it all? We're renting a large apartment (we have to have options to put up other coworkers who come to visit) in the center of Paris and food, lodging and transportation are all on the company's dime. For both of us. I don't know how I got this lucky, but I plan to thoroughly enjoy it.
We're currently sitting in Sea-Tac, staring out the window at the fog as it sucks up each departing airplane, while we await a delayed flight. As we attempted to log in to those handy-dandy, self-check-in kiosks, they informed us that our "original flight was delayed," and we would "miss our connecting flight." These cheerful salutations were followed by that inspiring statement, "all flights are booked for today and tomorrow." Luckily, with the assistance of a very accommodating airline rep (whose help we may have gotten illicitly by inadvertently stepping around the long, agitated line for "Additional Services") we seem to be all set up. Here's hoping it's all smooth sailing from here. I can handle a lot of unexpected travel inconveniences, but air travel is my least favorite category.
For now, I'm signing off to better observe the immense grayness that is the Seattle sky, but look for adventure updates and stories as I try to overcome Spanish vowels and trilled Rs in favor of speaking eloquently through my nose.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Epilogue I
I imagine that everyone has completely forgotten this site exists, what with my month plus hiatus and the fact that I've returned to the states and, supposedly, have no reason to keep writing. Funny thing is, life goes on, no matter what country you're in. So, I may keep writing for a bit. Even if no one is reading. I may not. I have options.
Being home has been great, though I've hardly been home in BG for any lengths of time sufficient to actually get used to it. Routine is a friend that I've been frantically avoiding since my arrival. In the past month and a half, I've been to Michigan, Seattle three times (after this coming weekend), I'm headed to Eugene next week, and sooner or later, I will, of course, be heading back to Spokane.
I periodically miss Costa Rica. I miss the food and the beaches and the jungles and the bus system (I understand it much better than I understand them here). I don't miss living with my host family. I didn't realize entirely how much it stressed me out. I like them and it was fun, but it wasn't the greatest long-term set-up for me. I was flipping through some emails I exchanged while I was gone and it really hit me how much more relaxed I am here for numerous reasons. Every time I leave the country and come home I find myself wanting to "go back but in a different capacity." I never want to wash my hands of a place, but I rarely want to have the exact same experience over. Which is okay. Growth doesn't happen if nothing changes. And frankly, high school was a blast. And I never want to do it again.
I do miss the Spanish. There is just no replacement for total immersion. I miss speaking it, I miss hearing it and I miss the constant challenge and the continuing string of defeat and success that made up every day in Costa Rica. My mom has a house cleaner who comes and the lady who works with her, Marta, is from Chile. A few days after I got back from Michigan I met her and was able to speak to her in Spanish. It felt so good. I had no problems understanding her at all. My accent and tongue waere a touch rusty, in comparison to while I was in CR but still better than when I left, I'm sure.
Anyway, that's more or less the state of life, for now. I'll be busy dancing this weekend, canning next week and then throwing the finishing touches together on a party for my parents the week after that. It'll be a fun time. Look me up.
Being home has been great, though I've hardly been home in BG for any lengths of time sufficient to actually get used to it. Routine is a friend that I've been frantically avoiding since my arrival. In the past month and a half, I've been to Michigan, Seattle three times (after this coming weekend), I'm headed to Eugene next week, and sooner or later, I will, of course, be heading back to Spokane.
I periodically miss Costa Rica. I miss the food and the beaches and the jungles and the bus system (I understand it much better than I understand them here). I don't miss living with my host family. I didn't realize entirely how much it stressed me out. I like them and it was fun, but it wasn't the greatest long-term set-up for me. I was flipping through some emails I exchanged while I was gone and it really hit me how much more relaxed I am here for numerous reasons. Every time I leave the country and come home I find myself wanting to "go back but in a different capacity." I never want to wash my hands of a place, but I rarely want to have the exact same experience over. Which is okay. Growth doesn't happen if nothing changes. And frankly, high school was a blast. And I never want to do it again.
I do miss the Spanish. There is just no replacement for total immersion. I miss speaking it, I miss hearing it and I miss the constant challenge and the continuing string of defeat and success that made up every day in Costa Rica. My mom has a house cleaner who comes and the lady who works with her, Marta, is from Chile. A few days after I got back from Michigan I met her and was able to speak to her in Spanish. It felt so good. I had no problems understanding her at all. My accent and tongue waere a touch rusty, in comparison to while I was in CR but still better than when I left, I'm sure.
Anyway, that's more or less the state of life, for now. I'll be busy dancing this weekend, canning next week and then throwing the finishing touches together on a party for my parents the week after that. It'll be a fun time. Look me up.
Friday, June 19, 2009
El Fin
Well, I leave my house in 12 hours. To get on a plane that will take me to another plane which will take me to my other house. In my other country. With my other family. With my other friends. In, what feels like, my other life.
I feel almost as antsy-nervous-excited as I did when I left for Costa Rica. The reality of the end has been slowly dawning on me since yesterday after I finalized all my paperwork with the university. Not quite here yet, but it's getting there.
In the mean time, I sleep, finish packing, eat breakfast and say goodbye for the last time. Then I'll be off on my next adventure. Wish me luck!
I feel almost as antsy-nervous-excited as I did when I left for Costa Rica. The reality of the end has been slowly dawning on me since yesterday after I finalized all my paperwork with the university. Not quite here yet, but it's getting there.
In the mean time, I sleep, finish packing, eat breakfast and say goodbye for the last time. Then I'll be off on my next adventure. Wish me luck!
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