Jeux sans frontières


Yesterday two British gentlemen were walking behind me, one apparently new to the social mores of our fine nation. The first one (I don’t know why he’s first but he is) explained this to his mate: “If you catch a ball you’re not meant to keep it. You must give it to a small child in the vicinity. That’s, like, a big faux pas in America.”

Though not entirely accurate, that is very sweet.

I speak a tiny bit of several languages – one or two words in some cases – and so it is rewarding to overhear something that I happen to understand. Once while walking my little Louie in the park, a young girl pointed to him and said to her mum (or guardian, or aunt, or neighbor, etc.), “собака!” which, in my novice cyrillic, looks like the Russian word for dog. Is this correct, unusual-number-of-visitors-from-the-Russian-Federation?

In theory I am off to my new gym. In fact I am wearing fitness apparel and sitting on my sofa. Truth be told, I’m a bit intimidated by this place, though it promises not to have any of the ickiness associated with gym culture–ogling men and competitive women. It does have a big, lovely lounge from which I can work on the Great American Novella I started yesterday.

Alright. Wish me luck. Or don’t, it’s just a gym.

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