My grammatical screw-ups are many and frequent when speaking my second class languages (Italian, French, German and Bosnian): like saying I’m ‘soft tired’ instead of dead tired (Italian), or ‘put the chicken in hell’ instead of into the oven (Italian), or ‘put a mouse on your face’ instead of a smile (French).
But here for you all now, are my top three favourites in the category of “Sorry, I’m not from around here”:
I’ve got a thing for coffee. Which is handy, because I’ve got a thing for caffeine too.
When the coffee is shit, which is all too often the case, I tell myself that at least I’m getting my caffeine fix this hour. All is well.
But if the coffee should taste good in addition to giving me those highly prized pin-prick pupils – the whole day just takes on a shiny patina.
Perhaps the title is misleading. This blog is about a chance encounter with one Christian. My first and only. I’m sorry for those of you I’ve met in the past who believe they ought rightly be counted amongst my Christian meetings. But you bible sellers aren’t even in the same league. This guy was the real deal (and you should probably be thanking him).
This story starts in Rome. I know, I know, why the dickens is he writing a blog about Americans if he’s in Italy? Have patience, answers come.
The wash basin is blocked with toilet paper and cigarette butts, and the tap is dripping something altogether the wrong colour. The toilet bowl is crusted with the crud of a thousand stranger’s rear ends. The stains on the walls are so thick and tactile you would be well within your rights thinking they were the only thing holding up the ceiling.
cheers ...
p u t n i k 