I raised my hand and whistled up a taxi at Stumptown Field. "Au nord-est 22nd et le rendre rapide!" Blank stare. "You're not in Paris anymore, Jack, and for the sake of Sam, you talk like Google Translate ®." "Je n'ai pas entendu aucune plainte en France. OK, driver, северо-востоке 22 и быстро сделать." We took off.
The driver made good on my request and ten minutes later found us hauling our valises into the house, and flopping down in chairs. "Remember the steamship days? No jet lag." "Whoan." (Dolly-girl is still in the grip of la grippe français. She doesn't know whether to whine or moan.) "Back in those days..." "Whoan." "...travel was civilized..." "Whoan. Put a clip on that trap of yours, Jack or I'm gonna hack up a lung on you." Silence.
We're back. Twenty-four days on our Tour de France (and a little bit of northern Spain, and of course, the micro-nation of Andorra.) Time to start planning the next one. "Whoan. Don't get any bright ideas, Jack. I'm ready to let some moss grow on my barking dogs.""OK, Dolly-girl, I was just thinking the τα ελληνικά νησιά or glas na cnoic ar an talamh de do sod might be nice. "Whoan..."
1 comment:
Welcome home! Lovely pic of you two.
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