mlle. h. bean

I woke up this morning in the loft. This would be perfectly normal except that of anything after the 5th, maybe 6th swig from the absinthe bottle last night I have no recollection. Claire filled me in on the details of how I got up into the loft, (it involved her one rung below me the whole time) and some of the things I said. Honestly, who is this girl? Do any of you know her? Usually I can remember everything that happened, but absinto as they say in Portugese happens to be pretty potent stuff, especially when one is drinking it straight from the bottle.

We're taking bets on how long I will stay drunk for; I'm guessing til tonight. At the moment it is a beautiful sunny day, Joe is cooking that fish he caught last night, Claire is making matte, an Argentinian tea involving ground up twigs, or something. Later we'll go out in the canoe and bake on the lake, and there may be some swimming involved.

I realized today why I feel so much like I'm home, besides that these people talk like Cape Bretoners from time to time and eat tofu and live in a house that smells like the home of the Kennedy's. It's that the trees are short.