JATB News
The author has just released his first children's book, The Park Bench! A bilingual tale with rich illustrations to cheer all hearts.
Listen to it here in English and en français !
On Thursday, September 29, 2011, I became a French resident. This is my story.
Categories: France | Tags: Italy, France, Visa, Immigration
October 1, 2011 |
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Recently I had the chance to take four flights across three days. The result? An excessive amount of time spent at the SkyMall. Find here my deconstruction of everyone's favorite place of aerocommerce.
Categories: None | Tags: Traveling, Flying, Capitalism, Deconstruction
October 1, 2011 |
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WELCOME to Jesús and the Bunny! This site is the home of the travel writings and photography of author Christopher Bradley, as well as a showcase and marketplace for his fiction writings.
Author's location: Strasbourg, France
The Park Bench: For a limited time, order one or more copies of the Eng/Span or Eng/Fr versions, and receive a free package of Chocolate Decadence dark chocolate buttons! So why wait to plunge into the colorful world of the world's latest and greatest bilingual children's book! (Available in English, Spanish, French, German, and soon Italian!)
And while you wait for your copy to arrive, you may listen to the story in English and en français, read by the author and illustrator.
Photo du Jour
22.01.11. On the way to Titisee! A weekend across the border revealed the hospitality and beauty of the Black Forest. Bis bald Deutschland!
Photos du jour d'autrefois (updated 11 Jan. 2012)
Updates from Utopia
Aline and I featured in the regional newspaper the Dernières Nouvelles d"Alsace.
06.12.11. Birthday present.
I woke up this morning to find myself in the French papers! What a treat. It is the result (but I hope not yet the culmination!) of several months of work on making The Park Bench into the children's book it was always meant to be.
To catch a glimpse of my rising French star, you can see the articles about me, Aline, and The Park Bench here:
◊ L'histoire d'un livre pour enfants
04.11.11. Jesús and the Bunny presents: The bench with many names!
A sneak peek inside The Park Bench. Text by Chris Bradley, illustrations by Aline Ederlé.
Today is a big day: my girlfriend and I have received in the mail a beautiful copy of our new children's book, entitled The Park Bench. But, as detailed below, the book answers to other names as well: El banco de parque, Le Banc du parc, Die Parkbank.
Each version of the book will feature two languages. The first two versions, to be released in a matter of days (!), are English/French and French/German. The English/Spanish version will then follow shortly thereafter.
The book will be available for sale to begin with via jesusandthebunny.com! Make sure to give a look, too, to the e-book version.
More information here!
Coming soon to a park near you: the friendly bench, el banco simpático, le banc amical, la panchina amichevole…
15.10.11. Children's literature.
As you may have read recently in the upper right-hand corner of this home page, "the author is currently at work on a new children's book!" This book is called, in English, The Park Bench, and it is about to come into the world.
The Park Bench ( © Bradley / Ederle 2011!) was born several years ago when I thought up the tale of this nice little bench. Then my grandmother came along and edited, re-wrote, and adapted it, and suddenly it was fit for children! But the story, finished and ready-to-go, sat on my hard disk until this summer.
That was when I spoke about it to my girlfriend, who counts among her talents drawing and painting. She agreed to illustrate my book.
One question remained: what language would it be in? I had written it in English, but here we were in France, and right on the border with Germany, and then we had that year together in Italy... So we decided: we would make it bilingual, producing multiple versions, and take full advantage of our linguistic skills and of this ever-more international world we inhabit.
The book is now in its final stages of preparation. In just a few short weeks, all will be ready, and out it will go. Keep your eyes open this holiday shopping season for this hit waiting to happen!
Chris joins the 20Below team. Wave back!
17.07.11. The days of my journalistic past.
For some time now I had been meaning to digitize my personal archives—all of those silly things that I once wrote for the city and university papers. It was a few years ago that I collected in a box in the garage all of my essays, articles, and reviews for the Register-Guard and the Oregon Daily Emerald. But there they sat, and then I went abroad, first to Italy, and then to France.
Now I have returned for the summer, and I came across this box two days ago. I thought that if I were ever going to scan these things, now would be the time. And in the span of five hours, across two days, I was done. I found articles for the Register-Guard's 20Below section and for the Emerald; letters to the editor published in both papers; and various poems and stories in various UO publications.
Above all I was surprised that I had published so much. Not all of it is Pulitzer-worthy, but I chuckled a good deal as I read back through all that I had written. And I realized that I had done almost all of this from 2007-2008, a period of hyper production, all while I was going to school and working a bit.
It's nice inspiration for me now to see what I was capable of doing then. Certainly that couldn't have been my peak; certainly I have bigger things ahead of me. But I think in order to attain these things, I have to learn something from my (slightly) younger self: that I simply need to produce, write, submit, without heed to how difficult this can be. Or as my grandma once told me, I had a lot of chutzpah to do what I did. I will surely need this as I go forward.
One World Trade Center
12.06.11. Manhattan highlights.
Today was our best chance to hit the main Manhattan drag. We will have most of tomorrow before heading to the airport for our red-eye out, but I see 5th Ave. on the horizon… I am not sure we will make it out unscathed, after Tiffany's and FAO Schwarz.
On this Sunday, then, we took the subway to the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island, returning via Wall Street and Ground Zero. Above is One World Trade Center, halfway up its 104-story frame.
It's all very well hidden behind construction fences, but it is already arousing lots of tourist interest. Watch out for its opening in the next several years.◊
11.06.11. Escape to New York.
I always take my shoes off once I get on the airplane. But this was my first time boarding the plane with just my socks.
The security folks at Zurich tried their darndest to keep my off United flight 979, but ultimately I made it aboard thanks to my girlfriend's smile and stubbornness, and some helpful United men in suits. I made it to my seat at 10:09 a.m. for my 10:10 flight, clutching my Chuck Taylors to my chest.
Then we were up in the air, and away. Whatever issues I faced in Europe, now I am back in the USA with the loveliest of sidekicks, and eager to make the most of my summer here. A few days in New York City is a good place to start.◊
10.06.11. Journey to the west.
After a long and short year à la française, I return home. Enfin, presque. First up is New York.
For all of you who have visited me and thought about me and followed along electronically, thank you. I have had a fabulous year, and look forward to a fabulous summer. I hope to see many of you during my Oregon sojourn.
And then it will be back to France in the fall, visa in hand. But let's take things one step at a time.◊
31.05.11. The Soothsayer.
Last Wednesday, the 25th of May, I went to see the soothsayer. My girlfriend had expressed some concern, and her mother some surprise. Was I feeling okay? Did I need help of some kind? I had not seemed like the sort who went to see fortunetellers. But then, who can tell?
In reality, the circumstances surrounding my decision to visit Madame Lalonde in Strasbourg were simple and benign. I had found a deal for a twenty-five minute séance for €14 au lieu de €43, and decided I could not miss this opportunity for three reasons: 1) I am in fact in a transitional period, in terms of work and geographical location, and am not averse to seeking advice about this; 2) the séance would serve as a conversational French lesson; and 3) I could write an essay about it afterward.
Now that the time has come to write this essay, I am pleased to inform everyone that I did very much enjoy my séance with M. Lalonde, that my future is looking up, and that I have not become an astrologist.
What one expects—perhaps what one fears—going to see a person like M. Lalonde is to be presented with an avalanche of Tarot cards, to have one's palms scrutinized, and to be lathered with lengthy discourses about the planets and their houses. Going into this séance, my experience with fortunetellers was limited to what I had seen in movies and across other media. M. Lalonde was the first whose counsel I decided to seek. And what I experienced with her has made me rethink my conception of these far-seeing folks.
Madame Lalonde works out of her home, an apartment on the third floor of a building in the southern quarter of Strasbourg. One of the rooms of the apartment she has transformed into her seer's studio. There is a couch like you might see in a psychiatrist's office, a bookshelf in the corner (including, notably, the Bhagavad Gita), and a round table for two placed in the middle of the floor. It was there that my séance would take place.
Madame Lalonde is a bit over fifty years old and does not put on airs. For my séance, she was dressed in a simple and elegant beige summer dress. Her appearance is consistent with her brand of fortunetelling. M. Lalonde calls herself a "voyante"—literally, a seer. This is one of a plethora of terms used to describe those persons who devote themselves to the field of divination: oracle, augur, prophet, prognosticator, fortuneteller, clairvoyant, sibyl, and the intriguing haruspex. Some of these terms imply using clues tangible and otherwise to understand the future. "Haruspex" denotes an ancient Roman "religious official who interpreted omens by inspecting the entrails of sacrificed animals" (Oxford American Dictionary). A literal "augur," similarly, would have been a "religious official who observed natural signs, especially the behavior of birds, interpreting these as an indication of divine approval or disapproval of a proposed action" (Ibid.).
But the rest of these terms are quite innocuous. "Oracle" comes from Latin orare, "to speak"; a "clairvoyant" is one who sees clearly; and a "soothsayer" merely tells the truth. Think of that most wonderful Shakespearian oath, "For sooth!"
Madame Lalonde, then, pertained to one of these latter categories. She was frank with me that she did not believe that the heavens controlled our destinies. Nor did she believe there were any signs in the skies that might indicate our fortunes. She is a seer who believes in every individual's power to choose—our ability to shape our own future.
But doesn't that kind of defeat the whole purpose of being a seer?
Apparently not. M. Lalonde has been in business for thirty years, and what she says makes her effective is her ability to observe and perceive. She does not read the heavens, her Tarot cards, or your palm; she reads you.
So it was that for the duration of my séance (a supposed twenty-five-minute session that stretched to forty-five), we simply discussed my current situation in life: what I am doing, who I am doing it with, what I want to be doing, and how others feel about it. She did ask about my astrological sign, and that of my girlfriend. We were born under the same sign, Sagittarius, and M. Lalonde remarked upon that as a good, erm, sign. Our shared Sagittarius identity means that, a priori, we are two fairly compatible people. More so than, say, an Aries and a Pisces. But this is only one piece of the puzzle, and certainly not the most important.
What is important is how strongly I feel about my relationship with my girlfriend, and how strongly she feels about it. The rest—concerns about parents' or grandparents' wishes, about job possibilities—is largely inconsequential. She did say that she could discern that we were two intelligent, spirited people, and that intelligent, spirited people usually make things work. And she added, upon my pressing her, that in her professional opinion she did not see any kind of negative force or influence awaiting us, or hovering around us in some way.
The fact that I even asked her this seemed to surprise her. Could I not see how well things were going for me at this stage in my life? I could see this, and I told her so; it had just seemed proper to seek a second opinion. She assured me that I remained in control of my own destiny, and that I need not seek the "benediction," to use her word, of anyone else, be it my parents or the parents of my girlfriend.
I think I had been determined to elicit from her some grand prediction or warning, in line with the Hollywood-influenced soothsayer stereotypes I was familiar with. But M. Lalonde was equally determined not to give me any.
She was not an augur or a haruspex. Just a seer of the purest kind. She perceived that I was in a positive and promising situation, and implied that if I tried to see it as anything other than that, I was being foolish. I suppose that's the best fortune I could have hoped for.◊
12.05.11. The return of the golden bean—almost.
Strasbourg—I didn't get the filters. I can't believe I didn't get the filters.
On the cusp of enjoying a rich, full pot of coffee—or several!—for the first time chez moi in Strasbourg, I came to the unhappy realization that this regal White Knight of Kahveh requires paper filters. And I didn't buy any when I went to the store to make this epochal purchase.
But that is a reparable error. What is important is that this lovely Moulinex coffee maker has crossed the threshold into 21, rue du Général Zimmer. We had been using a French press, which I had received from my ingenious family while in Italy, and this makes worthy coffee, provided you use correctly-ground beans. I will continue to use it on occasion. But it only makes about four cups, and those for whom kahwa is a way of life know that quantity sometimes does trump quality, that mass production is sometimes preferable to artisan craftsmanship.
And so the Moulinex now sits on the buffet, gleaming, and waiting to be fed with its filters so it can begin to pump out its liters of brown drink. The French press might start to collect a little dust, and the Italians would be surely be sad to know that we will be using their caffettiera a bit less. But there will be time for them later: for now begins the Era of the Pot.◊
21.04.11. Day Eleven (to the north)
Finally, after eleven days of travel, we returned north to France. Originally we had planned to come back via Lyon in order to see one last dear group of friends. This would have had the additional advantage of avoiding paying €35 for a 2011 Swiss highway pass (somehow we slipped past those clever semi-Europeans on the way down). But this detour would have also added five extra hours of drive time.
In the end, we called it good and came home. The complete list of cities: Lucerne, Pavia, Rimini, Porto Recanati, and Macerata. Distance traveled: about 1600 kilometers (1000 miles).
We had ample time to reflect on our journey as we trundled back through Switzerland. It was a smooth, traffic-free ride, and we found ultimate pleasure in glancing across the highway and seeing hordes of cars battling to go south to Italy for Easter weekend. Lines reached Homeric lengths at the north end of the Gotthard Tunnel, a one-lane tunnel that is the third-longest in the world at 16.4 kilometers (10.5 miles).
We arrived home at about 11 pm. We unloaded the car and brought in our Italian wares: two giant Easter eggs and our colomba (a chocolate-covered, dove-shaped pastry), all from Marangoni Cioccolato in Macerata; our two, five-liter containers of olive oil; and our half-dozen canisters of espresso.
It was then bedtime. But before passing out, we gave a look to the handful of plants we had deserted to take our vacation in the Bel Paese. There, on the window sill, was a radiant white rose blossom to welcome us home.
20.04.11. Day Ten (Pavia)
Nearing the end of our Easter pilgrimage to Italy, we enjoyed one last full day in Pavia. And it was to be full: we would have breakfast with friends, eat lunch on the move, enjoy coffee with Aline's ex-roommate, have coffee with other friends, accompany our inimitable pal Julia to the train station, return to town for gelato with two other friends of ours, and finish the day with dinner at the home of one of the families whose kids I taught last year.
This was one of my favorite moments of the trip because we were able to talk at length with our dearest Pavian friends, after days of doing so much in a rush. As Aline and I went on a mini double-date with our Italian friends Lorenzo and Paola, we discovered that they would both likely be going abroad next year, Lorenzo to Germany, and Paola to Strasbourg itself. Depending on where Lorenzo ends up in Germany, we could be seeing lots of them next year.
I had already seen how my friends at the University of Oregon scattered after our graduation; now the same thing is beginning to happen with the friends I have in Europe. This makes for an exciting time, and makes me feel as if my world continues to undergo rapid expansion. I am of course traveling and seeing new places myself, but I also feel connected in a substantial way to each place where my friends end up. This diaspora thus makes Europe feel a bit smaller and a bit cozier.
19.04.11. Day Nine (Pavia)
We had a brief opportunity to see a few of our Pavia friends on our way south last week, but now we were back for a three-day stretch that would give us the chance to reconnect with everyone else. Naturally, we had been in town for only twenty minutes when we ran into our friend Julia at the market in the main piazza. We already had plans to meet her later, but compact little Pavia is great for such chance encounters, serendipitious or otherwise. (And there were indeed a few meetings that fell under "otherwise," given that we had much to do, and a limited desire to linger with the local quaquaraquà.)
When we did meet up again with Julia later in the evening, it was for dinner in Collegio Ghislieri, just like good old times. The goal was to tuck in to the magnificent meal served up there by the cooks, all while saying hi to all of our friends from last year. It proved impossible to succeed with both, given the quantity of food (four courses) and people (200), but it was an enjoyable hour, and fun to make ourselves seen once more in the collegio. We ended up becoming one of the more notable classes of exchange students, and it is important that our legend live on.
And on this point, we seem to be in good shape. When I introduced myself to one girl who was not there last year, she said those words most pleasing and reassuring to those who have moved on: "Oh, you're Chris."
18.04.11. Day Eight (Macerata, Rimini)
Monday marked our return to Macerata, and to the Marangoni chocolate factory. We had two five-liter (1.32-gallon) containers of local olive oil waiting for us, a special favor of our friend at the factory who put us in touch with his own buddy outside of town. This friend produces olive oil on a regional scale, and we were assured that it was of the highest quality. Later, we would find out from other friends in northern Italy that the Marche region is indeed known throughout the country for being home to a luxurious olive oil. And we received a "friendly" price, to boot! Thanks A!
And then it was back up the coast, after stopping in the historical center for a bit of bread, cheese, and deli meat. (This is much more satisfying in a place like Italy, where "cheese" means "savory pecorino" and "deli meat" means "rich and zesty bresaola.) We had enjoyed our brief stay in Rimini last week, so we decided to head back to the Villa Lalla Hotel. They gave us our "usual" room, "Dahlia," and we went out exploring. Our presence did not go unnoticed, as paparazzi hounded us at every turn (as seen above).
17.04.11. Day Seven (Porto Recanati)
On Sunday my girlfriend and I spent the day at the beach. The blue sky in our photos could have been from the peak of summer, but the cool breeze confirmed that it was still Easter season. Once lying on the sand, however, below the winds, the sun baked down and we could properly enjoy the spot.
Because this spot was all ours, at least until the wind- and kite-surfers arrived, with child apprentice in tow. This is the period for lovers of sport and empty spaces to hit the beach, before every last square centimeter fills up when summer officially hits.
We spent an hour or two there lying, watching, and listening: the men prepared their gear, went out to sea, steered back. The boy of one of them stood still, hands in his pockets, to observe all that he could before having to help the men prepare their next sortie. When they did return, they swore, exchanged their impressions about the water and air, and swore a bit more before heading back out. Shadows passed over us as they readied their kites, and then we were left alone again in our sunshine.
Neither the men nor the boy betrayed any sign that they recognized our presence right in their midst. Maybe it was because they thought we might be Russian, as many tourists are along this section of the Adriatic coast, or else because they were too busy reading the air currents and the waves to bother about a couple of sunbathers. Whatever the case, we all infused a bit of life into this stretch of beach otherwise neglected by the locals. They are accustomed to sun and blue sky, and the simple fact that the calendar reads April seems enough to keep them away from the seaside. It's a shame, but we were more than happy to take their place.
16.04.11. To Italy: Day Six (Porto Recanati)
Macerata is my ideal Italian town insofar as it's twenty minutes from one end to the other on foot, you eat well wherever you go, and the locals are eager to enter into conversation with you and invite you home for dinner (especially if you have curls like mine).
Yet for the weekend, an outing to the sea can be nice. We chose Porto Recanati, a port town an hour north of Macerata. I had been worried, without telling my girlfriend, after I'd heard from someone in Macerata that the beach in Porto Recanati no longer existed. The sea had eroded everything away, according to my source. Yet when we arrived, we happily discovered that this was not the case. The beach is a bit smilzo, not wide enough to stage a game of ultimate frisbee, but there's enough of it there to beachcomb and get sunburned.
On this evening, a Saturday, it was as if the town and its boardwalk belonged exclusively to us. Mid-April is still a bit early, for both tourists and reliable sunshine. As we strolled along the lungomare, all seemed in a state of dormancy: the sun, setting over the Mediterranean on the opposite coast, left our sea and our boardwalk in cool shadow. The seaside cafés and restaurants remained closed. But a few others, hardy like us, ambled by licking cones of gelato, and one had the sense of being simply fashionably early. Of being the lucky ones invited to a one-of-a-kind sneak preview.
15.04.11. To Italy: Day Five (Macerata)
Today we undertook the task for which we came on this whole wild journey of (re)discovery. The destination was the Marangoni chocolate factory, a local, family-run operation that makes marvelous mounds of chocolate Easter eggs. These are not any old eggs—the usual foil-wrapped milk chocolate cream duds—but majestic ovals of rich chocolate wrapped in zesty crêpe paper, ribbon, and flowers. We came to speak to them so that my dad, over at Chocolate Decadence, might be able to take up their torch and introduce these specialty eggs in Eugene.
One of the younger Marangonis was nice enough to take several hours out of his afternoon to guide us around the factory, exhibit his eggs, and show a bit of their production process. We also, inevitably, turned to discussing other subjects as well, and it was just as informative to hear this real-life Willy Wonka discuss life and politics in the Marche region as it was to listen to him talk about chocolate.
When we weren't eating, smelling, ogling, and discussing chocolate, we also found the time to visit Il Cortile (The Courtyard), a restaurant in Macerata's historical center that is typical both of local cuisine and the local manner of eating out. The experience goes something like this: you arrive, and a friendly grandmotherly type invites you to sit wherever you wish, making yourself at home. She then returns in a moment with the "menu": three or four options that she lists off (in Italian of course), of whatever homemade pasta and sauce she has made that morning. You then select one of these, and may do so in the secure knowledge that it will be exceptional and at a fair price.
This meal was no exception, as we dined on spaghetti all'amatriciana, a kind of spicy tomato sauce with bacon. The scene resembled somewhat the framed photos lining the wall behind our table: stills from classic Italian films, where the protagonists stuff their faces with piles of fresh pasta.
14.04.11. To Italy: Day Four (Republic of San Marino)
Following the suggestion of our waitress in Rimini, we decided to take advantage of the voyage south to the Marche to stop by the Republic of San Marino, "perhaps Europe's oldest state," according to my computer's dictionary. This 28,000-person town/country is situated atop a hill and provides a panoramic view of the countryside and the sea close by.
San Marinians speak Italian, officially, but we got spoken to in Russian more than anything else during our stopover there. It would seem that if you are a tourist, you are assumed to have come from the Caucasus. All the same, everyone we encountered was excessively friendly, and we enjoyed our few hours "abroad" as we got to climb to the top of Mount Titan.
The only wrinkle came when we bought a few San Marino souvenirs to take with us: they came wrapped in tissue paper with the diary of Mussolini printed atop. This would seem to be an attempt by the Republic of San Marino to sow social unrest within the ranks of their neighbors...
13.04.11. To Italy: Day Three (Rimini)
One is never too far from the sea in Italy. That said, Pavia is about as distant as you can get. We got over that hump today in cruising over to Rimini, a typically pretty city along the Adriatic that is warm and delightfully calm in mid-April. And the pineapples grow like redwoods!
A night's stay on the Adriatic can never be foul, but ours got off to a particularly good start when we were given a hotel room that was still occupied by another couple. Why is this good? Because they were gone from the room for the moment, saving all parties much embarrassment; and because we then received the "Dalia" room, complete with veranda and niceties like fluffy white slippers.
When we finally became tired of sitting on our veranda in slippers, we went to the sea. There was a bit of a breeze, and the late afternoon sun was waning. Although seeing as the water was warmer than it ever gets along the Oregon coast, our feet didn't complain. My girlfriend and I barely avoided a battle at sea, and I enjoyed observing another couple far off playing frisbee. The man threw, the girl dropped. The girl threw, the frisbee dropped, and the man threw up his arms. But he continued to retrieve it and toss it back: the sea was glinting under a setting sun, and it was no time to be frustrated with girlfriends. I tried to take this to heart.
12.04.11. To Italy: Day Two (Pavia)
After six months' absence, we returned to Italy, and to Pavia. Our visit was brief—just for the night—but we will be back in a week for a few more days. Despite the brevity of our pitstop, we succeeded in meeting two dear old friends for dinner and saying hi to my girlfriend's three former roommates. This came after we had already happened upon five people we knew in our first thirty minutes of wandering the streets of the city center, including Pavia's beloved Australian professor of English. He offered us both a signed copy of his new book.
Seeing our old friends again was special, and felt highly normal. I take this as a good sign that things haven't changed too much in Pavia during our time away, and that we didn't wait too long to return. I do wonder, though, what will happen next year when our Pavian friends will graduate and take their next steps.
One more sign that we were back among the comforts and oddities of the Bel Paese: the scowl of the pot-bellied cook of our wonderful crêpes, when it came time to pay after dinner. The four of us had enjoyed a lovely meal, and wished to pay separately afterward. This is a no-go in Italy. The onus is on the clients to have correct change and arrange themselves, even for a foursome. But my girlfriend and I had just come into town, and had used all of our change on highway tolls and parking. In the end, the irked cook did accept our four separate forms of payment, but made himself clear: that wasn't normally how things were done around there.
You could make a stand when this happens and go somewhere else the next time, but pretty soon you start to run out of places to go.
11.04.11. To Italy: Day One (Lucerne)
Today my girlfriend and I departed from Strasbourg mid-afternoon to begin our road trip to Italy. The stops: Pavia, Rimini, Macerata, Porto Recanati. But first, a wee stop in Switzerland.
We decided to spend our first night on the road in Lucerne/Luzern. I have only ever been in Italian Switzerland before (in Lugano, which looks/smells/sounds like Italy, but where it is suddenly safe to be a pedestrian), and at first glance Lucerne is quite a different story. Tomorrow morning we will explore a bit around the city center, which we glimpsed today while searching for our hotel. It wraps around Lucerne Lake and seems classic and cute.
For now, I have just seen a few shops, but am thrilled with my findings. In addition to the moose above, I've seen an ad for a "persönlicher Gesundheitcoach"—a personal gesundheit coach! Where else in the world could you hope to find one of those? I shall have to get a few numbers before skipping town. What does one have, after all, if not one's health?◊
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