The miles are starting to take their toll. Not on my legs, not on my brain, not even on my ankle. But on my feet. My feet feel like they’re in the last 4 miles of a marathon. Of all the things that hurt at the end of a marathon, my feet are up there at the top. But, meh, only about 60 miles to go. No big deal.
Jean Paul speaks French. This may come as a shock, I know. He also doesn’t speak English very well. So naturally, I’ve been learning French. And by “learning”, I mean I’ve been reading the bilingual labels on everything and digging up long-forgotten French words like pain, fromage, noire, gros, and sacre bleu. Needless to say, Jean Paul is impressed. Yesterday, after helping (that’s French for watching) him dump the RV’s septic tank, he called me the King. “Yes, King Merda,” I replied, which just goes to show you how much French I really know.
At Mary Brown’s, a popular chicken chain in Newfoundland, you can get a sandwich with fries or “taters”, which are just wedge-cut fries (regular fries being julienne-cut – I know things). When Jean Paul was offered the choice, he asked, “What’s taters?”
It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, so both Augustus and I jumped in.
POMME DE TERRE
“Boil ’em, mash ’em, stick ’em in a stew!”
Speaking of opportunities, fans of Doctor Who will be pleased to know that I am saying “Allonsy!” every chance I get.
We have a rest day tomorrow. I’m going to need it. I think I’ll take five showers just to be sure.
Where am I running? 