Absence makes the nicotine-urge stronger

Less than forty-eight hours on the other side of the world, and your humble blogger has already become a feast for the moustiques. Blood on the pillow would imply that, as soundly as she sleeps, she is still capable of scratching the bejeezus out of the buggers. One on the knuckle, two on the thigh, and any number on the torso, I am only thankful that they have not, as yet, attacked the soles of my feet. Of course, that would require any sort of sojourn into the real world, but I have so far graced with my presence only Carrefour, MacDonalds and the bank.

But why, why, I hear you cry. Why, indeed. Because it is hot. Damn hot. Furthermore, I find it difficult to believe that any human being can take lightly the transition from -7, ice and snow to 30 degrees with less shade than the sahara. An exaggeration the latter may be, but the temperature is not. Combined with 24 hours of travelling (comprising of 17 hours on various planes and a 40-minute, cross-Andes flight filled with turbulence and fear) and energy levels are low.

To add a touch of romance to an otherwise lethargic tale, the Frenchman was indeed at the airport to greet the prodigal anglaise, although nerves and exhaustion respectively took the edge off somewhat. The desperate cry for nicotine also did its best to distract.

To nullify the romance before we become a cheap Mills and Boon imitation, the presence of month-old milk, and a sweet potato with more arms than the Hindu deities combined was there to greet the traveller on return. I have not, thus far, tackled the tupperware, as it's original removal from the fridge disturbed whatever was living inside enough to discourage further attempts. That can be saved for the Housemate's return. On a positive note, the curtains are up, and never again will a neighbour witness what can only be described as a head-up-skirt moment.

The wondrous journey to Carrefour highlighted in itself many a cultural difference, as your humble blogger did not fail to point out at the time. The beer supplies for the evening were of course chosen by the Frenchman. Not only did this entail an involved run-through of the quality of each option, tempers frayed when English beer was criticised. I am the first to admit that England may not make the best beer, despite drinking more of it than truly conceivable, but we enjoy it and therefore I hastened to point out that a (literally) pint-sized bottle was not sufficient between three people. It certainly proved not to be after some creative (french) cuisine went awry later in the evening. Close to collapse with a body clock not yet accustomed, I was unfortunately too close to collapse to utter even an I told you so.

This will be remedied, with any luck, tonight, when we hit the strip and remind the Frenchman of the real way to drink.