Sent: Tuesday, June 12, 2001 3:28 PM
Subject: Short story The Intoxicatingly True Adventures of the Kreuzenjammer Kids Saturday, <June 2nd Champagne en route. Good start. Long wait in Paris for connection to
Geneva. Now I know why they call them terminals. Five hours and I still
can t figure out French money. Extra half hour wait on the runway while
they remove the luggage of three thoughtless louts who neglected to get on
the flight. Baggage removal enthusiasts fail to stop at three bags and
decide to leave most of our clothes in Paris. Greg John F has clothes. Can
t wait to see Rodney in Greg s pants. Nancy and I will launder and
exchange. Need warmer clothes. Suddenly everyone wants to get into Greg s
pants. <he can die happy. Note The innkeeper s daughter has key to Greg's room. Greg - "There is a
God!". PS It's Sunday here in freezy Switzerland. Monday, June 4 "Ist .... alles?" which means, where's the rest of breakfast. Seeking
lunch on Swiss holiday doomed. Finally find quaint inn (open) after
witnessing Fraser run from sheep and cows two steps ahead of hoof and
mouth. Switzerland very expensive. Four stalks of spargel = $27. No fest for me.
Learned important lesson in Swiss hospitality. Always advise innkeeper
when sitting in restaurant that you are there to eat. Otherwise wait till
cows come home with hoof and mouth before seeing menu. Tuesday, June 5 After many futile attempts to convince Stefan, owner of Ontaria - Rod
Man's boat, to remove the medieval motor mount we added a new rule to live
by - if you loan your boat, never go the regatta. That and "never go to
your daughter's prom". Friday, June 8 New official name for this journal - The Cheese Diaries. Two days later, 5
races and more wind than they've had all year. But we are well ballasted
with cheese. Wednesday night was raclette dinner. Raclette-that's Swiss
for 'stinky cheese used for driving vermin from country. Ireland had St.
Patrick. Switzerland has raclette. Today is the longing distance race. This is a Swiss variation in which
they post attractive young women on shore just beyond the marks. It keeps
the midlife cowboys sailing in the rain. This is the long distance race poem (hasty, not tasty) It rained, it poured, the old wind snored.
He didn't wake, what a mistake.
Hours adrift, no head or lift,
It's cold and wet, not over yet.
We call this fun, and when it's done,
we all declare we're glad we're here.
We're glad there's beer, good friends, good cheer,
but spare me that long distance race! There's more but that's all for now. Chow now. C
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