Mojo Rojo & Other Great Spanish Stories

A few days ago Chris asked me if i would like to join him and Ares and possibly another kid named Derek, of Mississippi, on a trip down to Taragona, a city roughly 1 hour to the south of Barcelona. We were to have lunch with one of Ares's good friends' family on their peach farm. A once in a life-time opportunity for an American boy traveling through Europe to be invited into the home of a Spanish family to eat their food and celebrate their traditions. How could I turn down such an offer?

We met at Barcelona Saints station to board our train to Taragona. We had only 5 minutes to purchase our tickets, make our way to the gate, and board the train. I have a Eurail pass and so the purchasing of tickets in unnecessary for me, but, I wasn't exactly going to be leaving without them and by the looks of the line, today was surely progressing like yesterday. Luckily, Ares saw a familiar face at the front of the line and managed to jump in with her friend to buy all the necessary tickets. We bolted to the gate while I was seeing images of my favorite childhood movie, Home Alone, flashing before my eyes, and after fighting tooth and nail to get seats onboard the car, we were finally able to get comfortable. Finding seats together is a senseless goal and so we just grab any seats we can find.

When we arrived at Taragona station we were picked up by Alef, a very good friend of Ares, in his Blue VW Golf. Rather than describing to you the intricacies of that conversation I will fastforward a bit. No one ever accused me of being concise.

Arriving at the peach farm we noticed a decaying house where all the family had gathered. I thought there were many people when we first showed up, but with every passing minute even more apeared. By the time I had finished my Whiskey and Coke there were roughly 16 people consisting of 1 family, 2 friends, and 3 Americans. The first course, ONIONS! They call them something completely different, and eat them differently at that. While the name currently slips my mind (maybe it's chive or scallions), the straight onions that you usually find in cream cheese or in a salad, are cooked over an open flame by the bushel. Wait, now I remember, they're called Colsots. Then the sprouts are layed out on the table and to eat them, you grab the very bottom and top of the plant and pull apart. The inside of the vegitable is revealed and after dipping it in their special sauce, consume. Many pictures were taken as this whole event was quite the experience.

The next course were various forms of sausages along with bread and with a garlic, onion, and butter spread, followed by artichokes. And boy do I love artichokes. The amusing thing is that many of the people around the table didn't care for the hearts, a fact that astonished me. But I made the most by helping them consume their least favorite parts.

Dessert consisted of homemade brownies, cookies, coffee, and of course, more whiskey. Now, while I'm convinced this entire entry has been very poorly written and is probably in need of some editing (it's early and I did not get home until late last night), I must leave it as it lies right now as I'm going to lunch with another Spanish family. These really are full day meals. It used to boggle my mind how someone could eat for hours and hours, a cloud obstructing my thought which has recently been lifted.

6000 Stairs Without A Slinky

I had heard a great deal about a beautiful monastery perched atop a mountain that seems to stand alone among nothing but flat lands. The mountain is Montserrat, among being the only mountain in the world formed from sediment; it also houses a 1000 year old monastery and Europe's oldest music school. Chris and I thought this would be a good use of a beautiful Friday and decided to make a day trip of the mountain.

We set a agreed to meet at the usual place, El Banco de Espana, at 9:00am. In I rolled at 9:15 and we were off to the train station to buy our tickets. Low and behold, we miss the first train by 3 minutes and are forced to wait another hour before the next is scheduled to depart. I, feeling like an ass, apologized and, well, continued to feel like an ass. We decided to kill the time by exploring a market Chris had seen on a previous excursion to the area. While it was no where near as interesting as the one off Las Ramblas, it still holds its own against Seattle's. I'm sorry, for some reason Sea-town doesn't stand a chance against the markets of European coastal cities. I found a little grocery store, bought myself a jar of neutella and a loaf a bread, and called it breakfast, lunch and a potential dinner. All of this for 2,50. When you're doing Europe on a budget, some of your values go out the window. For more on that, read February 5's entry.

After successfully draining the day of 35 minutes, we head back to the train station and with 15 minutes to spare, decide to sit down for a cup of coffee. We start talking, get into a deep and rather heated political and philosophical discussion, and low and behold, manage to miss our train again by 3 minutes. Rather than making another excursion we head back upstairs to the cafe to continue our chat. Rather than going into any more details on this, I'll tell you that we finally made the third train leaving from Plaza de Espana and were well on our way to Montserrat.

While pulling into the station I realized why it is that this mountain is so heavily emphasized in my travel book. It really is nothing less than a marvel to look at. After taking a few pictures from the base of the mountain, we pilled into the cable car, and at that opportune moment, Chris decides to tell me he's afraid of heights. He hyperventilates his way to the top, I laugh and yet try to gauge the true severity of the issue at the same time, and we safely arrive at our destination.

Chris and I then made our way to the Basilica, the monastery's church, where the boy's choir is scheduled to sing at 1pm. Seeing as it was 10 minutes to, we very quickly skirted up the stairs and down the roads and after filing into the cathedral, found seats up at the front where apparently only Catholics are supposed to sit. Whoops. Actually "Oy vey" would be more apropriate. Because the choir rarely performs outside of Montserrat, it really was a rare treat to hear them sing.

Now, here's where the real story begins, at least the amusing part. We decided we could not come to Montserrat and not climb one of the peaks. Looking at our watches we assessed that we had roughly 3 hours to be back down at the bottom of the mountain for the last and final train back to Barcelona. Considering the trail was gauged as having a 1.5 hour time commitment, we saw this as an attainable goal. We climbed all the way to the top where the tram was which we were supposed to take down, but we decided to continue on up the hill to the absolute peak, it was the only way we would be satisfied. Along the way we came across what seemed to be the ruins of a rather large dwelling. A two-story house fixed with stoves and running water, and a view unequal to any I had ever seen. Chris and I then agreed that we would return here before leaving Spain for good and spend the night.

We made our way through and out the other side of the house and ran along a path that seemed to wind around the mountain's peak. The next 15 minutes of trail was no more a trail that a poorly worn, dried-out, creek bed, and required full use of our hands as well as our feet. We climbed to the very top of the peak, took some photos, had a good yell, looked at our watch, and had another gasp. With only 25 minutes to make it all the way back down to the very bottom of the mountain from a place that took us over 2 hours to reach, we realized there was a very good chance we would be spending our promised night upon Montserrat that very evening. This would not be a problem had either of us been prepared to do so.

At nothing less than a full out sprint we bolted back down the mountain to the top of the tram, a place that required 1 and a half hours of our time to reach. The building was closed and locked, and there was no car to be seen within. Then my eyes fell on a sign posted on the outside wall of the building that read "Last ride at 16:45". Taking a second glance at my watch I reassured myself that it was indeed 16:50 and we were most definitely going to be spending the night. Because we had no time to reverse our ascent and taking the stairs just along the tram's tracks would be trespassing, we decided to descend the mountain just next to the tracks as it was direct and relatively easy terrain. After about 50ft, we see the tram arrive at the station and Chris and I run around to see if we can catch a ride. The woman inside informs us that we may not ride on the tram because it is the last of the day and only she is allowed to board the car. I asked if it were possible for us to use the stairs and she said it was fine, so long as we stayed clear of the tram as it passed.

We exchanged "thank you"s and headed down the hill... full speed. I cannot tell you how much my legs hurt. The woman, as she passed, said "if you are going this speed now, tomorrow: death". Indeed, she could not have been more right. 6000 steps and many blisters later, we were pushing open a gray door that read "Authorized Personnel Only" and found ourselves back at the monastery. But the ends justifies the means as we safely arrived in quite literally the "knick of time" to catch the cable car to the bottom. And just our luck, the train was late.

I Can't Help You

Have I got a story for you today, but telling it requires a bit of background, as with any story.

Chris's international program was poised to take a trip this weekend to the Costa Brava, near Girona in the Northern part of Spain, roughly a 1 1/2 hour train ride from Barcelona. Thinking it would be fun to have some other friends come along on the trip, he had a little conversation with the director of his program. She thought it was a wonderful program, however she stated it was necessary that we find our own source of transportation as we would not be allowed on the bus with the rest of the group. Train was one option, but the one that seemed best which presented itself late Friday afternoon was to take a ride in Juan Miguel's car as he would be traveling there on his own. Juan Mi had no problem taking me and Denail as long as Ares came with aswell, seeing as he had never actually met either one of us. So the plan stood that we would split the gas with Juan Mi, meet the group in Cadaques, spend the night on the floor in Chris's hotel room and tag along with the group to visit Figueres and the Dali Museum.

So Daniel, Ares and I met at Plaza de Espana on Saturday and then hopped a train to a small northern village where we met Juan Miguel and piled into his car. 3 hours later we were sitting in a cafe on the Costa Brava, and with the passing of another 2 we found the group and made ourselves comfortable in the hotel room. After the night's festivities (seeing a live band for an hour in one of the local bars and then playing some very pathetic games of Speed and Egyptian Rat Screw) we passed out on the cold tile hotel room floor.

Sunday morning we woke up, dressed, and proceeded downstairs to eat breakfast. Daniel, thinking it would be polite to address the acting program director (the real director was detained from the trip at the last minute and another American woman filled in), greeted her with a "goodmorning" and asked if it were ok if we joined them for breakfast. Her response was, "well, you paid for your room, didn't you?" At that moment she realized that we were friends of Chris's who were tagging along for the excursion. When Chris was carrying his tray to claim a table she told him "We need to talk". So he sat down really quickly thinking they could work something out speedily as he could tell something was wrong.

The next thing I know, this woman is telling us that we cannot ride in Juan Miguel's car to Figueres and we may not ride with the rest of the group on the bus. We are to be deserted in a small tourist town on the Costa Brava, a full hour's drive from the next town. There is no train, and the only bus stop has no times listed. It's Sunday, in Winter, you can imagine every shop is closed along with most of the hotels. The entire village is shut down and our assumed ride is being revoked by someone who does not possess that right and we are left completely stranded.

Daniel and I walked to the bus stop to check to times, and as I just stated, there were no times posted, and so we started to walk back to the hotel. On our way back we ran into the dreadful woman again and Daniel made one final plea. "May we please at least get a ride to the next town? We don't know what time the bus comes, there are no times listed, there are no taxis in this town, nothing is open, it's freezing outside, and we don't even know how to ask for help". That poor excuse for a pathetic piece of human excrament actually said "I'm sorry, I can't help you. You're smart, I'm sure you'll figure something out".

OH MY GOD! We are in another country, we don't speak the language, we went on this trip based on the premiss that we had garanteed transportation and she is depriving us of all our assumed necessities. To a final mousey request for help she says "I'm sorry"? Are you FUCKING KIDDING ME!?

We waited at the bus stop for a little bit and then Daniel had the idea to try and hitch hike. Daniel is the type of person who gets one thought in his mind and then follows it through, without fail. The first car that drove by was a two-door jeep. It was small, rickety and I honestly would have prefered to walk than ride in that thing, but Daniel stuck out his thumb. As the car drove by the driver pointed at he car shaking his head as if it say "In this thing? Are you kidding me?" Another car drove by, Daniel stuck out his thumb, the driver stopped and we jumped into this car of a nice South American family. They drove us to the next town from where we were able to catch a bus to Figueres.

After arriving in Figueres we saw the Dali Museum and met up again with Chris and Ares, as well as Mariana. We ate lunch, said goodbye and hopped the train to Barcelona, but not before another pass badmouthing that boneless twit. THE END

Neverland Found

I just got back from a movie with Ariadna and Victor, her boyfriend. The movie theatre is 25 minutes from the apartment, we had to be there in 10 minutes and I hadn't eaten anything since 2pm. I had to eat quickly and her mom kept saying to me "Mas rapido Aaron, rapido rapido. Necessitas correr!" So when I had to bound down 6 flights of stairs to get to the metro station after devouring a pound of potatoes and eggs, I wasn't exactly what one might call a "happy camper". The worst part is, after all that hustling by the time I finally got to the theatre it was 10:20 and we almost missed the movie. That would have made my day just dandy.

But we made it, with time to spare. Of course, we showed up with no idea what we wanted to see or even what was playing, so long as whatever we decided to watch would be presented in English. As long as I can understand the flick, I don't particularly care. I thought it would be nice enough to hear English at a normal speed and considered the quality of the production a secondary issue.

We agreed on "Finding Neverland", which in Spanish is "Descuverando Jamas Nunca", which really means "Discovering Never Again", or something like that. Just in the title I realized what kind of deeper connotations every word potentially has should the speaker or writer choose to utilize them. The movie contained large amounts of "loaded" sentences and the author was clearly particular about each individual word he used in order to convey a very specific thought, or to create a certain emotion. Naturally it was interesting to see the Spanish translation to a precise and metaphorical English sentence. The feeling is lost and the words lose their meaning.

More about the movie, however, it was amazing. What a great film for all ages, creeds and religions. I highly recommend it. Now I have to see "Million Dollar Baby" and "Downfall". Hopefully I can find them in English somewhere, but who knows. For this weekend I'm going back up to the Costa Brava with some friends and then perhaps I will travel a bit more about Spain the following week only to return to Andora to go snowboarding in the Pyranies that weekend. We shall see, which is really all I can ever say and should probably be assumed. Nothing is ever written in stone, at least not in my book. When I write in my book, I employ a pencil in my write hand and keep a very large eraser in my left.

Home Alone 4: Lost in Barcelona

Let me come right out and say that I have a very good sense of direction. Generally, I know where I am and what direction I'm facing at any given time, even when using the subway. London has to be the most confusing city I have ever navigated, and to be honest, I still handled that pretty well; I never got lost and I always managed to find the place I was looking for with minimal effort.

Maybe I should start at the beginning of story. Tonight was a great night of fun and games, quite literally. I met Chris at 1 to go to the Picasso museum with his class. Then we went to lunch with about 5 other people (most of the conversation was in Spanish and while I understood all of it, I'm simply incapable of participating). Afterwards I attended a law class with Chris at the university and then we went to sit in on Evra's English class. Out of 7 levels, they're at level 6! I was so impressed... hardly. Evra's English is fantastic and I assumed rather incorrectly that the rest of the class would be at the same level of understanding. Boy was I wrong.

Anyway, we had a good time in the class and the teacher invited us back for next Thursday's session so that we might bring in some cultural aspects to the program, otherwise everything they do is out of a textbook and boring, to say the least. After class Daniel, Chris and I decided we would go to the Casino as neither I nor Chris had ever been to one, and Daniel had won just over 300 euros playing Black Jack in the last two days. I didn't exactly plan on playing, can't really afford to blow that money, but I thought I'd watch. I stood behind the two of them for three hours while they went up and down in their earnings. 3 hours and 250 Euro later, we're outside taking pictures of ourselves, trying to find a cheap and quick place to eat.

Fast forward again because I haven't even gotten to the main part of my story and already this is getting kind of long, and it's really late, even for Barcelona. It's 12:30 and I decide to call it a night. Daniel really wants to go to a club but Chris and I would rather go another time. We're at the port all the way on the East side of Barcelona, on the sea, and I have to get all the way to the West side in the hills. Unfortunately, the metro is closed for the evening and cab fairs triple after 10pm, so that's out. I decided I would take to the streets on my own two feet.

I walked for about 40 minutes passing a few metro stations I knew were along the normal route. I checked my map 2 or 3 times to be sure I was on the right track. Finally I get to the metro stop that is one before the station I need and the road I'm on turns to the right. I follow it around, and when it turns back, it's not the same road. The road I need is literally 150ft above my head, and I have no idea how to get there. So I continue to travel along the road I'm on, keeping the road I need in site, and the road I'm walking on winds farther and farther away from where I need to go. Finally, I find a side street and make my way back up the hill to the station I was looking for, by this time it's 1:40, and believe me, there is no one out in this part of town. Street lights are few and far between, and people are all traveling alone, or sitting on the sidewalks watching passersby.

As I approach the metro station to start my usual route from there back to the apartment, I realize that this was not the station I was looking for. I look at the map, I look at the station and I double check everything, all the names and locations line up, but apparently I'm not at the right elevation. I have to climb another 150 to 200ft to the next exit of the station and, again, I have no idea how to get there. All I see is a flat wall all alongside the road with no steps going up. I wandered for another hour, through poorly lit side-streets, looking over my shoulder every 5 or 6 steps and nearly soiling myself at the sound of a plastic bag skidding across the sidewalk as it's carried by the wind. I finally get to the top of the hill and have an opportunity to reorientate myself. I can't figure anything out. I check my map again, look at the station name, look at the surrounding land marks and I realize that I am completely lost. It's now about 3am, I've been wandering for just under 3 hours and I really have to use a toilet. In my destress I look across the valley and low and behold, I'm on the wrong hill.

I don't know what it was, or how it happened, but for some reason I've always had a different perspective of where the apartment was. And of course, at 3 o'clock one morning is when I have to set myself straight, the hard way. And what did I learn from this experience? Always take a cab in a country where you don't know how to ask for directions.

The Real Meat-Locker

Today I met up with my friend Chris Wintrode from Beloit. Boy a boy, and too think I come 4000 miles East to get away from that city and a little piece of it comes with me. But I love Chris, so it's all good. Of course our love is a platonic love in the tradition sense not the literal one (all the Greeks had sex with each other, especially Plato, the student teacher relationship then was a bit more intimate).

I met him outside el Banco de Espana, in Placa de Catalonya. He introduced me to his friend from Harvard and after a bit of honoring the sun god (as we all do when we meet someone from an ivy league school) we headed toward the Zoo. It wasn't exactly intentional, but that is surely where we ended up. Of course, we knew were going in the direction of the zoo long before we laid our eyes on zebras because that well known stench to various animal shit filled the air a good 3 kilometers away.

After getting lost in the zoo for a bit, we discovered the smell of that recently filtered air had made all of us rather hungry and we set out to find a good place to eat. Chris's friend had to split with us for class so Chris and I went to meet another friend, Jessica, for lunch.

Fast forward. We went to lunch at this amazing meat cafe place. I don't even know what to call it. It was basically a warehouse/hole-in-the-wall in the middle of side street. All I know is I had two sandwiches, onion rings and a bottle of champaign for less than 5 euros. It was fantastic. The sandwiches were various types of sausages and cheese, the onion rings were the greasiest I have ever tasted (and with grease comes extacy), and the Champaign was as cheap and amazing as could be. The three of us eat and talked, with little ledges to put our glasses on, as there were no places to sit down, we could only stand. When we were finished, we threw our napkins on the floor, littered with other people's paper waste and headed off, but not before getting a picture.

Party like a Catalonian

Here is Barcelona, there is a great amount of Catalonian pride. In fact, the other day I had a conversation with a guy named David who didn't consider himself a Spaniard at all. He asked where I was from and I said "the States". Then he said "where in the states?" and I said Chicago. I asked him where he was from and he said, "Catalonia". I jokingly said "ah, another Spaniard" and he corrected me by very strongly stating he was not a Spaniard but a Catalonian. Apparently Catalonian's don't realize they are a state within the nation of Spain. They are not their own nation. Sorry. There is no representative of Catalonia in the United Nations, they don't have their own currency, what they fashion is their own language, Catalonian. Shocking, no? Everyone here is up in arms about the new European Constitution because it won't recognize Catalonian as a language and it will apparently deprive the little state of it's culture. Here's what I have to say to that, if you want your own culture, move to Utah. No one cares what you do if you live in Utah. The people in Utah might have a little concern, but no one else could care less. Progress: 1, Culture: 0.

In other news, tonight I went partying with Ignacio. First stop, La Bottileta, or "the little bottle". So cute. Every drink you order is served from a tiny bottle of whatever alcohol you fancy. Adorable. They even had tiny bottle of Frangelico and Ignacio almost had a heartattack. Although, I thought that for 7 euro a drink they should at least let you keep the little bottles. But no, I'm sure they just refilled them and put them back on the shelf.

We met Ignacio's new love interest and her friends at the bar and when it closed at 3am, we headed over to the real party at the discotek. Let me just start off by saying I was a virgin of the discotek world, and my dancing cherry was just popped. That place was a bit ridiculous. People everywhere dancing dancing dancing. And the party managed to carry on until 6am. I have to admit, It would have been a bit more fun had I known more than one person there and had there not been a language barrier. Actually, I convinced one girl that I was from Barcelona but I spoke English fluently because my parents thought it was very important.

Actually, it's funny because I'm trying to think about what else happened that night and I honestly can't remember too much. I know I didn't drink that much, maybe it's just because I'm writing this so long after the fact. More will come eventually I'm sure. If not, there will always be other stories.

Hobo of the Month

I just had the most amazing night of my life. I effectively learned how to survive as a homeless person in Paris. My mind is running wild with all the things I experienced tonight because, in all honesty, the things I witnessed ranged from appalling to brilliant, and in some cases the entire range of judgement could apply to a single event. I'll give you an example:

After I went out for drinks with my new friends, Eli and I stepped out and went to find an Englishman by the name of Daniel. Daniel, lives on the street. He is, for all intensive purposes, a bumb. But he is very well educated and very intelligent. He just decided that he would live on the street for a year or so before returning to his rather prosperous life in England. We found Daniel after only a few blocks of walking and from there headed towards a bakery called Paul, just inside Odeon. By now it was about 2am and the bakery's all start their baking for the next day. Which means they discard all the baked goods
from the previous day. We found litterly hundred of baguettes, paninis, crossants, and other baked good, still wrapped in plastic and still cool from the refrigerators they were stored in.

We grabbed a few bags and started to walk the streets with dozens of goods from the previous day. We weren't necessarily planning to keep them for ourselves, but rather, we offered them to various homeless people we came across. Many took them greatfully, and some kindly declined the offer.

To be honest, I had the most outrageous time, and unfortunately I am so tired right now I can hardly focus on the screen, I'm completely reliant on my blind typing abilities to get these ideas onto the page. Because we were wandering the streets at 3am, and I would have to get up at 5:30 anyway, I thought it not such a poor idea to remain awake for the rest of my stay in Paris and opt to sleep on the train to Switzerland instead. But now, I'm at the apartment, bags packed, ready to go, and yet I still have over 2 hours until my train leaves.

I'm actually kind of affraid to go to sleep for fear that I might not wake up in time and subsequently miss my train. I think I will go read the news for a bit, write a few short and indescriptive emails and hopefully that will be sufficient to pass the necessary time. But I guess we shall see. I just had the most amazing night of my life. I effectively learned how to survive as a homeless person in Paris. My mind is running wild with all the things I experienced tonight because, in all honesty, the things I witnessed ranged from appalling to brilliant, and in some cases the entire range of judgement could apply to a single event. I'll give you an example:

After I went out for drinks with my new friends, Eli and I stepped out and went to find an Englishman by the name of Daniel. Daniel, lives on the street. He is, for all intensive purposes, a bumb. But he is very well educated and very intelligent. He just decided that he would live on the street for a year or so before returning to his rather prosperous life in England. We found Daniel after only a few blocks of walking and from there headed towards a bakery called Paul, just inside Odeon. By now it was about 2am and the bakery's all start their baking for the next day. Which means they discard all the baked goods from the previous day. We found litterly hundred of baguettes, paninis, crossants, and other baked good, still wrapped in plastic and still cool from the refrigerators they were stored in.

After eating a few ourselves, we grabbed a few bags and proceeded to wander the streets of Paris, passing them out to various people we found sleeping on the street and such. Many took them greatfully, and some kindly declined the offer. So how's that for a story to tell my children.

To be honest, I had the most outrageous time, and unfortunately I am so tired right now I can hardly focus on the screen, I'm completely reliant on my blind typing abilities to get these ideas onto the page. Because we were wandering the streets at 3am, and I would have to get up at 5:30 anyway, I thought it not such a poor idea to remain awake for the rest of my stay in Paris and opt to sleep on the train to Switzerland instead. But now, I'm at the apartment, bags packed, ready to go, and yet I still have over 2 hours until my train leaves.

I'm actually kind of affraid to go to sleep for fear that I might not wake up in time and subsequently miss my train. I think I will go read the news for a bit, write a few short and indescriptive emails and hopefully that will be sufficient to pass the necessary time. But I guess we shall see.

Great Day, But Very Tired

Two things, one of which I will fully explain, the other will have to wait because I am very tired and need to get up early tomorrow. The other day I was walking to the Pantheon from the Luxemburg Gardens, and a very old French lady stopped me and started to address me in French. I told her in my very best French, I do not speak French. She looked up at me and said "you are not french?" I told her that I was not French, and that indeed I am American. It was at this moment that her face turned from a pleasant smile to a most horrid frown and she opened her mouth to growl "I HATE BUSH!" in a very thick accent. After assuring her I did not vote for him she told me "Good", I was affriad she was going to hit me. "I think you should sleep with his woman" were her final parting words.

That's my story of the french woman on the way to the Pantheon. My other story, has to do with tonight. I met a few people at the Shakespeare & Co. bookstore (should you ever be in Paris and not know where to go and be eager to meet someone to socialize with, this is the place to be) and let me just say that I have made some new friends and I hope to travel with them in the coming weeks. But more on the later as I am about to pass out.