WTF

"Mommy, why is that car parked in the middle of the turn lane?  Never mind. It's France."

Last week picked up our good friend, Kit Cat, at the airport.  I have to say, it is nice to have a friend around, as it is a bit isolating when you don't know anybody.  Also, she is willing to travel and put up with this kind of shenanigans.  And she's been traveling with us since she was 15.

As traveling will have it, I was not sure of my way to the airport.  And as I was walking in through the double doors 15 minutes early, quite pleased with myself, I hear this, "OH THANK GOD you're here.  My phone just died."  This was after speculation as to whether or not she made her connection in Paris.  Meaning, her flight left JFK an hour late.  She landed 40 minutes late.  And she, as luck would have it, barely made her connection.  Then her phone died.  The first thing we did was go to the Intermarche!  Where I had a long conversation with the lady next to me in line in Frenglish.  Awesome.

Less than 24 hours with us, she refreshed my memory with some good ol' American commentary and questions.

"Check out the Man-pris."

"What?"

"The Man-pris.  Capri pants for men."

"What?  Where?  Hunh?

"RIGHT.  IN.  FRONT.  OF YOU!!  You know you've been living in France too long when..."

Uuuuhhh.

"Why do all the houses have gates across their driveways?"

I reply, in that tone of voice that says, well, of course this makes perfect sense...

"To keep the sheep out of the yard."

And then, the best commentary of all...

"You are driving like you are in Rome."

"What do you mean by that?  This is how they drive. This is how I drive.  THIS is how you have to drive here.  I don't see you driving!!"

"No judgment.  Just observation."

It is funny to have an American "fresh off the Air France flight" perspective.

But really, to sum up we just eat.  All the time.  I'd have photos of the beautiful pastry but they never survive long enough to get a picture.

Kit Cat's favorite muffin... Filled with caramel beurre sale

Award winning ice cream...

We had a s'mores party for the other guests, all of them English.  And Emily - she's Canadienne and Irish, but she lives here in France at Clos Mirabel.  I asked Kit Cat to bring us a box of graham crackers.  Then I obtained some Haribo guimauve (some are pink, marshmallows).  We had a campfire and made s'mores.  The teens/kids were all excited to try a s'more, as they've seen it on TV but don't have graham crackers.  We also brought popcorn, which they devoured.  It was a fun night of American treats.

I love this.  In 1st grade we go to the farm and the farmer told me that he doesn't tell the kids what happens to the animals at the end of fall.  The parents don't like it.  Uuuuh.... then what's the point?  That hog is a pet?  That turkey is for show?  I appreciate the French for their candor, and this kind of stuff cracks me up, so that I point it out to the kids.  The nosey butcher in Arudy has a stand up board where you can stick your face in it and it is the scene of a mountain butcher with a goose and a calf and a knife.  I think the word "dangereux" needs no translation.  Watch out pigs!

I found Jesus in a sausage at the market.

I also found this chicken from the butcher.  "Avec sauce?" I replied, "Oui.  Avec sauce, s'il vous plait."

He then picked up a scoop, scraped the chicken fat and drippings off the bottom and poured it on the chicken.  Kit Cat almost had a heart attack and let out a strangled, "Praise Jesus!" (more along the line of taking the Lord's name in vain) and the poor butcher thought he did something wrong.  I laughed and I told him she is a crazy Americain and just shook my head.  He was a little unsure as to whether or not we were worthy of the chicken.

Kit Cat was expecting a sauce - like a barbecue sauce.  A small bowl of something.  Not the fat scraped up and reapplied.  I expect no less from the French.  Again - welcome to France!

And check out this market paella.  I cry every time I go past it.  I can't eat it due to my shellfish allergy, but I want to.  It smells divine.  The first time I saw it I stared and said, "Beautiful!"  And the market keeper agreed and yelled, "YES!  Beeeeyouteeeeful!!"

I'll discuss the driving aspect of France, because I've had several questions regarding it.  You just get in your tiny wind-up car and do it.  You can't sit at home.  Make sure you can drive a manual transmission.  Smile when you block traffic or get flipped off.  Slow down or back up as needed to squeeze by in these tiny roads.  They do not have yellow lines on their roads, so you might end up going the wrong way.  Figure out the speed limit - it's in km by the way.  Yield when entering a roundabout, and if you are taking the second exit, enter in the left side of the roundabout (the right side will take the first exit, then you move over to the right for the second or third or fourth exit).  Drive all the way around if you miss it.  Everybody knows how to do this.  Don't listen to the radio.  Never use your phone (too much going on) or your turn indicator (the turndicator), because then they really know you are foreign.  Because seriously... duh, there is only one way to turn in the roundabout - to the right!  It took me a week stop using the right turn signal.  After you are comfortable, then listen to the radio, which only has Coldplay or Michael Jackson or "hits from the war."  You know which one.  Always back up a tight, tiny street when a hay truck comes or tractor comes at you down a Roman road.

We have been here so long now we don't even notice the French stuff.  All we can say in response is "Welcome To France."  It is the best answer to every single question.  Why do they park on the sidewalk?  Welcome to France.  Why does Coca Cola cost more than wine?  Welcome to France.  Why does the coffee suck when they live right next to Italy?  Welcome to France.  But then again... why is the wine so cheap?  The cheese so awesome?  The bread so good?  The pastry amazing?  The lunch hour 2 hours long?  The butcher so nosey?

I cannot tell you how sad I am to be leaving this weekend.  I love it here.  I don't miss Oregon (I miss you guys and my dog) but surprisingly, I don't miss Portland, which I love.  Even the Tween admitted she likes it here and doesn't want to leave.

In any event, I'm not ready to go home, but alas, my time has come.  We went out and bought train tickets to Paris because the Air France ground crew is going on strike on Saturday, of course.  We were supposed to fly into Roissy CDG on Saturday, but the strike is scheduled for that day, and we don't want to mess with it, so we are taking an early (only option available!) high speed train into Paris.  Which is fine with me, because we get to see a lot of France go by.  Lee called the man we are renting the apartment from in Paris and his response was, "Welcome to France."

PS - we will be partying in Paris and I may or may not blahg it upon my return home, because then I'll be in recovery and catch up mode.  So I bid you a fond "adieu!" for now.  Sending my love.

Bee-are-too-Rich for My Blood

Drag everybody out of bed and hit the road for a day trip to Bilbao for a visit to the Guggenheim.  YAY!  This was met with bitching, moaning, gnashing of teeth.  Whatever.  Can it.  Get in the car and praise Jesus down the road you are in France.

Pummeling rain and speeding and radar cameras and toll booths and three different languages met us on our road trip.  But we did not shy away from our goal.  We prevailed!

The Champ gave me the ugliest glare, a glower of monstrous proportions - the type of monster you'd see on a Catholic cathedral, consuming the damned.  But I said, "Toughen up kid.  This weekend we are in Paris and it's nothing BUT museums in your future.  BWAHAHAHAHA!"

The Guggenheim is an amazing building full of tourists.  We stood in a long line.  In fact, we spent more time in line than we did inside.  But we got a free popsicle outside, so it was alright.  Kit Cat and I were busted by the staff for taking pics, but seriously, everybody was taking pics.  And there was all this "participate" in the artwork, which made us laugh so loud, EVERYBODY knew we are Americans.  To which I have to say, "Go France yourself.  U!  S!  A!"

DONG!  So this is a big plexiglass box and obviously it is a maze, but when you don't watch where you are going you run into a wall, which is hilarious and everybody outside the box laughs at you... specifically the Americans.  Especially when you smack your forehead on it and it makes a loud SMACK noise.  We cannot decide if it is DONG!, or THWAP! or just a crash.  What we all agree on is that it is hysterical to watch.

Inside these large fabric pillowcases are my two youngest artists.  The performance art is supposed to be "mountains" transitioning with the music.  It was really funny.  They ended up being ghosts.

And this... from my lefty, artistic, creative child.

And then we drove to Biarritz (Bee-are-reetz) to check it out and get some dinner.  What a cool town.  So full of tourists and lots of people with tons of money.  I parked like a jerk, because why not?  And then we ate, which the kid that was serving us thought it was hilarious when I told him the wine was for "the boy." And he was all excited by the fact that we all are from Oregon.  Cool beans.

The Champ bought some churros from the shop, by himself.  It had the name ChiChi on the poster.  The shop guy was laughing and told him, "You get an extra one."  And I yelled across the street, "Gratuit!  My favorite word."  And for some reason we all busted out in dance, which he thought was awesome and then threw in some free bon bons.

And then Kit Cat and I went shopping and spent some euro we don't have, followed by a long ride home in the dark.  Awesome.

Oh and don't sell me any  "Enfants Terrible" here. We're all stocked up.

We ate at Arzak Restaurant

Arzak.  For dinner.  We secured a reservation, which is more difficult than childbirth, and then it worked out that Kit Cat had booked her ticket for this time, so we left her with the children and drove to Spain.  For dinner.  Doesn't that sound so international and like we are riche, when in fact, everything is so expensive against the dollar that we are totally French Country Pau and we "drove to Spain" for dinner at the #6 or #9 restaurant in the world.  Whatever.  Getting into the small, private parking lot behind the building takes an act of God.  

The meal starts with Elena showing up at your table and asking questions about food allergies and then tells you what lovely stuff she'd like to make for you. 

And the sommelier, his English is "no bueno," which is fine because my Spanish is "non existent."  I asked the sommelier if his apron is "leather."  I don't know the word.  So I suggested "vache," which is French for cow.  I spoke Frenglish the entire meal and the wait staff laughed with me the entire meal.  So we figured out the whole, "Is that leather?"  And he said, "Si."  And as he opened my wine, I said, "Oooh, sex-y." Which he actually laughed out loud.

Let me explain - these white table cloth super expensive restaurants have no sense of humour.  I get it.  Patrons are paying a ton of money to eat there, so let's everybody have a quiet, sober experience and pay homage to food.  Or you can be me - where I enjoy the food and comment on it and laugh and feel delightful at the food.  So despite my "American-ness" and my French joie de vie, I am sure I offended all of the British and the Norwegians and the French in the restaurant.  Go French yourself.  I'm fin with it.  We had fun.  And the price we paid, I should have fun.

As expected, the meal was fantastic.  Lee loved the lobster (of which I could not partake) and I love love love my pigeon or whatever tiny bird it was I ate.  Lee ordered the lamb.  All of it was fabulous, not gonna lie.  This white tuna was my favorite though.  So freakin' good.  If I were not a little "capitalizing on my petit dejeurner with Kit Cat right now" I'd go find my souvenir menu.  But I'm too lazy right now. In fact, I'm so lazy right now, I can't even flip the picture right now.  Listen, I stopped taking pictures of food a long time ago when I moved away from NH, because food was not so good there.  For this dinner - I never remember what I eat, so it just helps my memory.  And the pictures suck - like all of the pics I take.

Cold tomato soup as part of the amuse bouche.  Seriously... eat the toothpick stuff, then drink the soup.  Fabulous.

At the very end of the meal, the tray of sweets arrives.  Lee was all, "I don't like those, so eat mine."  It was a gelee.  I had popped my in my mouth and I said, "I don't care if you don't like it.  Eat it.  You have to!"  I was delighted by it.

It had fancy shmancy Pop Rocks on it.  Deeeeliteful!  So the couple next to us... well, their tray of sweets showed up and while his wife was in the restroom, I pointed at the gelee and said, "Eat!"  He smiled, and said, "How do I?"  I said, "Just put it in your mouth."  Meaning - use your fingers!  This fancy food, sometimes... confuses people.  And all I say is, "PUT.  IT.  IN.  YOUR MOUTH!!"

So he does.  And then he laughs.  He said, "My kids love this.  I feel like a kid."

His wife returns and the poor thing had an audience as we watched her eat it.  Oh, she was surprised and delighted too.

Then we all started talking together as everybody else left the restaurant.  It was wonderful.  They live in San Sebastián (lucky jerks) and have three boys.  She said to me, "You are young?  You have kids young?"  BWAHAHAHAHAHA!  We had a good laugh over that.  No, I'm not young.  I didnt' even have kids young.  I just think that leather apron is sexy!!!  They also told us that they have so many friends visit and all they ever ask is how to find Arzak Restaurant.  I replied, "Take a cab.  HAHAHA!"  Well, they finally made it to Arzak!  HA!  I love that!  When you live in a city, sometimes it is the hardest thing to do to make it to a restaurant.

We talked for a bit.  I told them about San Fermin and how much we enjoyed it.  Turns out - she is a doctor and at one point worked in Pamplona during San Fermin.  She laughed and said that during San Fermin, "You see everything."  Drugs, drunks, all kinds of injury.  HA!  But she was happy because we had a "beautiful experience."  

I think it is funny that he has run with the bulls and that they have never taken their own kids.   What is even weirder... when he was 16 he did a foreign exchange in the U.S. to "improve his English" and he lived in... wait for it... Waldport, Oregon.  After we told him we were from Portland, Oregon he waited a few minutes and then mentioned his stay in Waldport.  Small world.  I literally said, "What the F* were you doing in Waldport?"  And we all laughed and laughed.  The conversation moved on to their visit in the U.S. and how slow people drive.

And all of the sudden it was midnight and I was going to turn into a pumpkin.  We also had a long, 2.5 hour drive into Buzy in the dark.  It was worth it every centime and calorie.

Touristy merde

"Merde" in French means $#!t.  And they call it the "cinq mot" in polite company.  Which means, the five letter word.  But we are not polite, so... we did a lot of touristy shit.  Here is a sum up and the best of the quick bits.

Eglise de St. Marie d'Oloron.

Best part of this little visit is that Kit Cat felt her soul burning (she's a recovering Cathoholic), and the salmon carved into the doorway.  Salmon is big in this area, so we fit right in.  They are catching it, processing and smoking the salmon.  It speaks to me.  And its on a church.  Excellent.  It is a Unesco World Heritage site.  And is a major stop in the pilgrimage... to somewhere in Spain.  I'm too Pau to payez attention, apparently.

Monster eating the damned.

Like this blahg.... talk about pressure.  Sheesh!!

Navarrenx

This is fortified town (think Fort!), finished in 1547.  We walked the ramparts, watchtowers and dared each other to walk through the dark tunnels, which were really scary, spider and ghost filled.  Honestly, it was probably full of pizza boxes, broken glass, drug paraphernalia and used condoms.  Again - it was too scary to go into.  So we walked the ramparts while The Champ used his slingshot to shoot rocks at other rocks and us.  Awesome.

St. Jean de Luz

It was time for some r & r.  Kit Cat is here on vacation, and the grocery shopping, day tours, wine drinking, cheese eating, sleeping by the pool and country living hasn't been exactly vacation-y.  We swam in the Atlantique, ate lunch, I took a nap, tried to avoid looking at the topless bathing beauties (they were all over 60 years old), discovered the tidepools, enjoyed an early dinner and drove home in time for bed.  All sunburnt and exhausted.  The kids swam and swam.  I love this little city so much I want to retire here.  Like, now.  I love the Pay Basque (Basque Country) and the cuisine and culture and people. 

Chateau de Pau

King Henri the IV was born here.  It is here in Pau and full of beautiful tapestries.  Uh, we tried to pay attention, but it was all in French and we were focused on getting some ice cream.

Tour de France

Yay!  Tour de France!  We were right at the start, stage 18, Pau to Hautacam.  We got there 3.5 hours early, took pics, bought t-shirts and got a bunch of free swag.  Various sponsors threw t-shirts, reusable grocery bags, carves, keychains, neckerchiefs, various hats, blow up pillows, madeleines, bracelets, a newspaper, drawstring backpacks, juices, oven mitt and saucisson sec.  Kid you not - tiny packets of Choconou sausages were thrown at us.  Awesome.

And this guy, in a beat up baguette costume, was killing it.  He got the crowd going.  We were laughing so hard.  He's the best human sized baguette ever.   Oh and then there was the race.  It was cool.

Le Petit Train d'Horreur (Frenglish translation)

Did you just say "boozy?"  Because I can't think of a more appropriate name for a town in France.

We have moved away from Clos Mirabel for the week to a tiny and I mean itty bitty town.  This village has the four required establishments: the church, the baker, the butcher and the bar.  And that is about it.  Oh, and us.

This morning, as we headed out for our adventure, we met the neighbor.  And his excellent bird hunting dog, a breed I would call a German short haired pointer.  Very beautiful dog.  We had to explain to him who we are, where we are from, and why we are here.  I am sure the rest of the village knew before we hit the church on the way out of town.

We stopped in Arudy for a much needed cup of coffee (after we stopped for our daily bread, and I was once again told to enjoy my vacation and they are always surprised when I respond appropriately) in a... bar, of all places.  I think that mass had just ended across the street, so everybody was in the bar.  I begged for a coffee, and we answered "LARGE!" when the barkeep asked.  And when he gave it to me, I gave him a hearty "merci" and the "praise Jesus across the street" and the zombie look.  He laughed and said, "You are WELCOME!!"  Whilst we drank (chugged) our coffee, the kids played... foosball.  And all the while the locals made no attempt to avoid staring at us.  C'est la vie.  Maybe it was because we had our children in a bar at 11:00 a.m.  Wait a minute... they all do.

I then sent the kids to The Tank.  The Tank is the Volvo.  Compared to the Hamster Car, it is a tank.  We figured it would be easier to get up the mountain.  I walked across the street to buy whatever moldy saucisson sec was hanging from the ceiling from the butcher.  The Boy (aka, The Champ) has taken a liking to the local sausages; he is frequently found gnawing on moldy, odd shaped, porc product.  In fact, just the other day, he and I had an entire conversation in French, regarding his desire for saucisson sec and my asking how much he wanted.  I don't think he knew he was answering me in French.  This was Thursdays sausage... see the mold?  We ate it and lived to tell the tale.

So I walk in and there is a tiny little old lady ordering a really big guy around - the butcher.  He instantly offers us some potatoes.  And not just any potato... these potatoes have been roasting in the drippings of the rotisserie chickens.  The big rotisserie is full of poulet, slowly roasting all morning, waiting to be picked up by lazy mamans like myself.  It was the greatest pomme de terre I've ever eaten.  Screw all those other potatoes I've had.  Be them whipped, and fried, "plated" or smothered in cheese... Chicken drippings, rosemary, butter, salt, pepper, handed to you on the end of a giant two pronged fork by a really big Frenchman butcher wielding a knife who speaks no English.  THAT'S the way to eat a roasted potato.

Lately my husband has been saying some strange things to me.  The other day I was bemoaning the fact that I am getting fat.

He replied, "But you knew that would happen before you got on the plane."

So then he ate the potato (to which the butcher was pleased that I said, "Mmm... pomme de terre") and stated, "Sorry, but that potato is better than the potatoes you make."

Uuuh, duh.  Everything, and I mean EVERYTHING is better if I don't have to cook it.

Moving on.  I then got grilled, for the third time today (the neighbor, the bakery lady) by the butcher.  And I don't mean rotisserie style.  I mean, for whatever reason, it is always the butcher that is the town gossip.  They always ask... where, why, how long?  They always ask, "Anglais?"  And I always screw up my face like I ate a bad sausage and say, "Non.  Nous sommes Americaines."  And they always smile a little and agree with me.  It's like... let me see if I can offend you and see what you do.  Then he asked, in rapid fire French, which state.  And I shook my head - I had no idea what he said.  And clear as a bell, the lady (always some other lady in a hurry looking to be "helpful" and get the tres stupide Americaines out of the way because she wants her roasted chicken) behind me laughs and says, "He wants to know what state."  Aha!

I then tell him what we are doing... going on the Le Petit Train d'Artouste.  EVERYBODY has an opinion on the Petit Train.  He runs to the window to check the weather and gives me the classic Gallic shrug - maybe rain, maybe no.  HA!  Well, he ain't no weather man, but his saucisson sec was delicious!

Because it rained.  Back to that in a minute.

Follow the road up the Pyrenees, through the Vallee d'Ossau and you reach Spain.  Eventually.  But if you stop, you get to Artouste.  All the way up the valley you follow the river, and several very small hydroelectric dams.  And a ton of sheep and some cows.  This valley is famous for it's cheese (seriously, which valley isn't?).  But it has Brebis.  It is really good.  We buy it at the market, or out of the back of some guy's truck.  Kid you not.  The 8 month aged cheese is phenomenal.  Whoops - sorry.  Back on le petit train track.

We finally arrive and it looks like a ski resort.  BECAUSE IT IS.  I buy the boy a slingshot; my maman sense is telling me the whining and the boredom is about to begin, and every boy is happy pelting things with little rocks.  We get in our creaky, frighteningly old "telecabine," which to me and my years of snowboarding is a gondola.  Did I mention that it is really, really cold?  Coming out of 100 degree weather this past week, and only packing summer clothes, we are cold.  It is like Timberline in the summer.  I think we are headed up to 6,000 feet or something.

Into our telecabine and I tell The Boy, "DON'T you fart, or I will throw you out."  AHAHAHAHA - the kids laugh.  I'm serious.  I'll throw you out.  I'm trapped in this tiny bucket of bolts and duct tape climbing a slack line of wire and if you make it more miserable I swear I will...

At the top it is even colder.  And we meet Le Petit Train.  More importantly, it is the highest train in Europe!!  Who knew?   And we are not even at the top yet!

Over the next 55 minutes I manage to... it is so freaking scary I almost jumped off and walked back.  First, we go into a very tiny (tiny enough for the seven dwarves and their freakin' tiny train), and very dark and surprisingly long tunnel.  On the other side is 50 minutes of tiny train climbing up the mountain.  Literally carved into the mountain.  About 8 inches (okay maybe 12) separate me from FALLING TO MY DEATH!!!  On one side is the mountain... on the other side is an 10,000 foot drop to certain death.  Okay, so maybe only 1000-3000 feet, but that train sliding off the mountain down a shear cliff of nothing but granite and marmots, trust me... it is still certain death.

I failed to mention my laundry list of phobias.  We know about the claustrophobia and the mysophobia.  Add to it - a severe fear of falling.  I don't have a fear of heights, but I do fear falling which can obviously contribute to a very uncomfortable train ride.  Did I mention the part where I couldn't look out or down, and for the most part I squished SpecK up against her side of the train car because I was trying to put 6 more inches between me and CERTAIN DEATH?

And the part where I asked the kids, "WHO'S IDEA WAS THIS?!!!"  And the kids kept laughing and asking me if I was doing okay.  If I had a valium, I would have taken five.

The top was cold.  But we pushed on, and did the short hike to the lake.  In 1920, they built this big dam for the hydroelectric.  This is how le petit train got there - it schlepped all the workers and materials up there, and now it schleps frozen, frightened tourists.  The water bubbles, by the way.  There are thermal springs up and down this canyon.  We ran around, utilized the slingshot effectively, took a pic and the rain started.  Of course.  Butcher's fault.  He should keep his day job.

As nerve wrecking an experience as it was, it is beautiful.  Not gonna lie... tall mountain peaks, some snow, lots of rock and greenery.  Cold clear, smoke free air, steep, rugged cliffs and green and blue water, it is really one of nature's finest.

Back to the scary train.  I wasn't quite ready for the return trip (in my head) but now that I'm wet AND cold, I got ready in a hurry.  Back on the train.  SpecK fell asleep while I held on for life and limb.  I was never so happy to see a small, closed in, dark tunnel.  And the "telecabine" ride back down was a welcome, panic and fart free trip to civilization.

People hike around this area.  They ride this stuff up and then hike down. Here is proof.  Don't they look happy?  Don't have I have crappy photos?  I like to call them action shots.

And one other thing... to make it a little bit more annoying, did you know the Spanish never stop talking?  I asked some French people one time if they thought that Americans are loud.  They replied, "Oh?  Pbbt.  Non!  The Italians!  They are loud.  Even worse?  THE Spanish!!"  Sorry to all my Italian and Hispanic friends out there - they mean the people who live here.  And I kid you not, we were on the train car with a Spanish family of 4 and she never took a breath to stop talking the entire 55 minutes up there and the 50 minutes back down.  Its like somebody hates me and le petit train gods are telling me to NEVER EVER get on a tiny train AGAIN in my life.  DONE AND DONE.  As the rest of my family agrees that she never stopped talking, they were more annoyed with the fact that she kept lifting the tarp and the frigid air would come rushing in and replace the cold air.  I just figured she was blowing enough hot air that she used all the oxygen. And this is coming from me, of all people.

And as we drove away, I was pleased to say that I did it and I never have to do it again, and I wholly recommend you do it. Au revoir, au rebede, hasta luego, good-bye and gute fahrt (needle scraaaaatch!).  What the Freeeench? I mean, what the German?  We backed up The Tank just to prove to you all that they hope you have a great fart.  The kids busted out laughing, well, we all did.  Potty humor - classic and timeless.

One last note - today we avoided the L'etape.  It is the Pau to Hautacam amateur bicycle race associated with Le Tour de France.  13,000 riders rode from Pau to Hautacam, on the route Le Tour will take on Thursday.  We went to Le Tour Village and bought our t-shirts.  We plan to be at the start on Thursday, so you might see us on the TV!

Until next time, sending you my love from Boozey.  I mean Buzy.