No wonder he is sore

Last night, during one of our hours long conversations, that being how long it takes to communicate relatively simple information in our home, my host father told me that he cut the weeds off of ten generations of graves. Because of some rotation issue, next year it will be fifteen.

You’d think it would get tiring, but talking with them over snacks–buttered cuttlefish, nuts, ice cream and, for me vodka, for him scotch, is more rewarding than some conversations I have had with people whose English is proficient.  (My host mother likes the strawberry ice cream on the buttered cuttlefish.  When she said, “delicious,” I looked up “skeptical.”)

At his mother’s house on Saturday night, he said, this is his son’s translation, “Because you exist, my father funny. Happy.”  E.T. had already told me that my host mother said to the principle, when she called to invite him to the dinner they have organized for tonight, that since I have come, their house is happier than before.  Which is the best complement I have ever recieved.

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