The Saga Continues
Part two- “Shit gets real”
Though there were but a few of us taking the course that had any prior experience, we were all expected to start teaching right away. It was a bit scary, and I’ll be the first to admit it. But, you know, it actually kind of worked out, and I became a big fan of the approach. I reckon most people, like me, learn how to do something by just doing it. No one can explain to you how to swim, but once your drunken father throws you into the pool and says “good luck!” you’ll be doggy paddling in no time (hopefully).
Regardless, as I mentioned above, the thought of jumping into teaching without much preparation was a bit daunting— particularly considering the majority of us were in our early twenties, and would be teaching adults anywhere from 18 to 55. I found solace in the fact that, at least in my mind, it wasn’t nearly as scary as the alternative— returning, defeated, to re-embrace my prior life as a line cook in Louisiana.
Pictured above: The Ghost of Missed Opportunity
During the first week the teacher trainers, which I will refer to as TTs from now on, break you up into three different groups— about five to a group. Each group is assigned a different level class— upper-intermediate or intermediate. Every morning during the first few weeks half of your group teaches for 50 minutes a person. We were all expected to have a full ten hours teaching by the end in order to qualify for the certification.
Adding to the nerve racking nature of the course, you are not only teaching in front of these older Czech students, but also a handful of your peers and an actual professional teacher (TT)— all of whom are taking notes critiquing your every move during your teaching debut.
My first assigned material was a vocabulary lesson on professions. I was given about five hundred words or so on what I should teach, accompanied by a page in an English text book and about 24 hours to prepare. It was my job, for example, to make sure each student knew what a ‘farmer’ was, that a farmer ‘farms’ and that his place of work is called a ‘farm’. I know it sounds easy, but you have to take into account that many of these students didn’t speak enough English to simply be told what a word meant; you often had to show them. I also had to make sure each student could pronounce it properly and use it correctly in a sentence. There were about 10 other professions included in the material.
I was nervous, but the fact that the other trainees were in the same boat helped to calm me down. I think it was my friend Dave who went first. He didn’t crash and burn (although I later found out he had some prior experience and both his parents were teachers) and that gave me a sense of confidence. I was wearing clothes my roommate Andrew had lent me, as the fine people at Polish Airlines had apparently decided a lady in Cairo needed my bag more than I did. I couldn’t imagine what she might be doing with a bag full of American clothes. I worried that she might be wearing them, before deciding that I was just being paranoid.
Because as we all know, Egyptian women dress more like this.
I prepared a bunch of material, overhead projections, flash cards, worksheets. The works. I felt like there was no way I would run out of stuff. What I didn’t realize yet is that teaching is all about pacing, and the best teachers know how to milk every bit out of an activity.
So needless to say, I made a classic error my first go. After a good twenty minutes had elapsed I’d gone over every thing I’d prepared, done all the exercises, peer checked and so on and so forth.
It was time for some serious ad-libing. Basically, I just started pulling random professions out of my ass and writing them on the white board.
“Does anyone know what a ‘Politician’ does?” I asked. There was one Czech woman in my class who was far beyond her placement fluency-wise, and there was a funny and telling moment when she said, “A Czech politician? Absolutely nothing!”
The other students didn’t understand, but my fellow trainees all laughed.
Anyway, I managed to flounder about for another twenty minutes, and get a passing grade. The bar was constantly going up, but the first day you had to mess up pretty bad to fail.
The cool thing is that once all three people are done teaching, you have a little pow-wow in the room with your TT and peers (the Czech students have left at this point) and talk about what worked and what didn’t. Everyone was super positive that first day, probably because the general adrenalin levels were high, and we all had a sense of accomplishment for having made it through the damn thing. In short, we felt like badasses all around.
The main thing I picked up from that day was teaching presence. We had all been nervous. Each of us paced around the room, clicked our pens, put hands in our pockets etc. We learned from that session that when you relax, the students will focus more…stuff liking sitting down and talking in a loud, clear, slow voice, keeping your hands at your side and maintaining good eye contact. We were just diving into the basics at this point. Although it was difficult to remember so many small details at once, it would become second nature to everyone by the end.
Then it was time for lunch.
Let me tell you guys, when it comes to food and alcohol, the Czechs do not play. As a southern boy I felt right at home with their rich, rib-sticking dishes. The cantina at the school was fantastic. Not only could you could get a big awesome meal for around 70-100 Koruna, it was prepared and served to you by some of the most incredibly beautiful Czech women I saw during my time in the country, and that is a huge thing to say.(more on Czech women later.)
Although it wavers, imagine 100 Koruna to be about five American dollars give or take, with a conversion rate of 17-20Kc 1 USD.
That first day I had dumplings, which is probably the quintessential Czech dish. Don’t think ChicknDumplins’, cause this was quite something else. It consisted of thick red gravy, meat, and these huge steamed sections of delicious bread.
Basically an orgasm on a plate for any southerner
After having spent way to long working in restaurants in the states, I knew quality when I tasted it. So, I gorged myself that whole first week, simply in awe of the food.
The Commander's Palace of Prague, minus the second mortgage.
After lunch comes the hard part- lecture. Every day, after a huge meal full of starches, you have to attend two classes on various things. We covered Grammar, Phonetics, and all the other lovely technical stuff that comes along with teaching the mother tongue. But, as it is a bit too dull to make a good story, and recalling it might forfeit my already off-balance sanity, I’m going to skip going into it in any detail and move on to something more interesting.
On Praha.
I wouldn’t get to go out and properly tear up the town until that weekend, and I’ll save that for its own separate story (deservedly so). However, this first week I would experience some rather frequent and potent “mind blowing” moments. These changes of perception were rapid, and of the sort which inevitably come from moving across the world to live in a new country for the first time. I had never left America until this trip, and so the amount of mental change I experienced is too large for the scope of this story. I’ll end today by trying to sum up some of the basics.
Praha isn’t an enormous city; in fact, it’s only about the size of pre-Katrina New Orleans (around a million). However it’s one of the only European capital cities to escape getting brutally gang-raped when Germany had one of its frequent “We can blow up more shit than the rest of you guys” contests….it just feels old. And I’m sorry guys, but we have to face this fact: if you’ve never left America you don’t know what old is. I sure as hell didn’t. Until then, the French Quarter was the oldest place I’d ever been, and I always felt it was kind of an ancient place. But, to demonstrate how retarded I was—
Some of the oldest buildings in the French Quarter are from the 18th century. In Prague we are talking 11th- 10th century…and that’s just the stuff still standing. There has been settlement on that little twist of the Vltava since JC was the ‘New Kid’ on the block. To clarify even more, imagine that New Orleans is a 12 year old kid who hasn’t hit puberty yet, on that scale old Papa Prague would be pushing 60 with a beard down to his ass-crack. Not to mention places like Athens, which are even older. Don’t get me wrong, I still think America is the most bad-ass place in the world, if only because it’s my home, but if we extend this metaphor, we are a toddler in the family of world nations, one who probably still needs to have his ass wiped from time to time.
"AMERICA, FUCK YEAH!!! oops..I think I just peed a little"
And a lot of places don’t give us the respect we are due, it’s true, especially at this time in history. Needless to say, there are plenty of Americans overseas who make it pretty difficult for us as a nation to earn respect. I remember plenty of times, walking around the touristy parts of Staré Město (old town), when I could hear an American two blocks away being totally crass and obnoxious. On the other side of the token, the majority of countrymen I encountered abroad were thoughtful, intelligent, and genuinely respectful of the fact that this was not their country. No, America is not the only important place in the world, no you are not owed automatic respect for being an American— and you would be genuinely surprised how many of us just don’t get that. Hell, it took me a long time to really accept and understand it myself. Although I tried to keep an open mind, I was guilty at times of certain undesirable American qualities. These were things I had to let go of; a feat easier said than done.
One of the first and most tangible realizations I would confront was the simple fact that I wasn’t going to be able to just navigate this new world using the same rules and judgments as apply in the land of my birth. This place was older, and being older, had a different and less flexible way of doing things. I had to realize and accept that I didn’t know shit, which for me is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.
But I was still in the honeymoon period. When you first arrive in a new country where you’ll be staying for a while, you tend to ooo and ahh a lot…everything is different, it’s new, it’s exciting. That fades pretty quickly, and you start to realize that you are a stranger in a strange land. You are a child (no matter where you’re from) and you are wandering into a group of grownups expecting them to treat you like one of them. That’s not how it works, and next time I’ll talk about what can (and did in my case) go wrong from time to time. One of my favorite authors, Samuel Clemons (or Mark Twain) summed up what I’m on about pretty damn well in Innocence Abroad:
“The gentle reader will never, never know what a consummate ass he can become until he goes abroad. I speak now, of course, in the supposition that the gentle reader has not been abroad, and therefore is not already a consummate ass. If the case be otherwise, I beg his pardon and extend to him the cordial hand of fellowship and call him brother.”
Thanks for reading guys.
SJP
Intermission
At this point I’m working on the next chapter of the story, but it is taking me a lot longer than anticipated, so I decided to take a break and talk about books.
I like to read a lot. Often times I’ll look up lists on the internet from such big names as ‘Time magazine’ and ‘The Modern Library’ which declare the 100 best books of all time. I almost always disagree pretty strongly with the choices…usually James Joyce or Ayn Rand will be up at the top, and I just can’t imagine what kind of thinking influenced such a ridiculous decision.
Anyway, everyone has and is entitled to their own opinion (however ludicrous), even me. Sorry Ayn Rand.
Here it is—the list of the 25 best works of fiction (in my opinion)…
I am open to criticism from all random corners of the internet. Please keep in mind that although I have a degree in English Lit, I have by no means read everything.
And really, this is more just a list of my 25 favorite books, and not a literary evaluation of each ones worth in relation to each other. I’m sort of a sucker for a good adventure, but that doesn’t mean everyone is. Sorry if any author’s names are misspelled; I think I’m coming down with dyslexia.
1) A Light in August— Faulkner
2) The Once and Future King— White
3) Madam Bovary— Flaubert
4) The Heart is a Lonely Hunter— McCullers
5) The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn— Twain
6) A Clockwork Orange- Burgess
7) A Confederacy of Dunces – O’Toole
8) For Whom the Bell Tolls— Hemingway
9) The Wild Palms— Faulkner
10) One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest— Kesey
11) The Sun Also Rises—Hemingway
12) Lonesome Dove— McMurtry
13) The Three Musketeers – Dumas
14) The Princess Bride— Goldman
15) The Road – McCarthy
16) Dr. Zhivago—Pasternek
17) Lord of the Flies—Golding
18) On the Road— Kerouac
19) A Farewell to Arms— Hemingway
20) Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas—Hunter S. Thompson
21) Bright Lights Big City—McInerney
22) The Adventures of Tom Sawyer—Twain
23) Dracula—Stoker
24) Breakfast of Champion’s—Vonnegut
25) Of Mice and Men— Steinbeck
Agree or disagree, but read any one of the books on that list and I guarantee you will be happy you did.
Please come back for the rest of my traveler’s yarn.
SJP
The First Day of School…
Waking up after a much needed repose, I was introduced to Seif, the third room-mate in my new pad.
Seif was cool, to say the least—the type of guy who is a good dancer, does well with the women—he had a bit of a Rasta thing happening. What’s more, he was a great conversationalist and could talk for ages about music and travel. I had my mind blown after talking with him for about an hour. The guy had been everywhere. Born in Egypt, and for all purposes Egyptian, he had been raised in London, England. He had the accent, lust for tea, and odd mannerisms down pact. Which brings me to a slightly off-topic aside, and one which will probably be repeated several times over the recounting of my travel.
Talking to Seif was the first time I was made aware of the painful fact that the English don’t speak English. I know I’ll catch flack for this, but I don’t care. Suffice to say, to my virgin ears, British was a completely new, foreign, and incredibly hilarious language. Ya I know, you guys invented it and everything, but that doesn’t give you the right to speak in such a ridiculous fashion.
But seriously, I’m just ‘taking the piss out of you’, I really do enjoy British slang and euphemisms and have since added many to my own vernacular, the use of which has not exactly been embraced by my fellow Louisiana rednecks.
An example—
Me: “Hey mate, can I nick a fag?”
Rednecks:
A foot chase then ensued...
Anyway, as you can probably tell, I have loads to say about British folk and about England (and you will see why as the story unfolds) but I’ll try to space it out for y’all.
Anyway, Seif had many amazing stories from a lifetime of vagabondage (which sounds like a weird S and M movie I know, but if the English get to invent ridiculous words and phrases, so do I!).
I liked him immediately.
The CELTA course
The next day Seif, Andrew and I managed to navigate the Prague public transportation system (which is quite impressive really, meaning the system not our navigation skills) and make it to the first meeting of our course. For those of you who don’t know, CELTA stands for the CAMBRIDGE ENGLISH LANGUAGE TEACHING of ADULTS and it was the reason we had all come to Prague. We wanted to be English teachers, but we also wanted to travel. For whatever reason (definitely not the money) we all wanted a change, a big one, and were brave enough to be in a foreign land taking the first step. The change we wanted we would most definitely get over the next month.
Really, I feel incredibly fortunate. I’ve never met such a solid group of people in my life—there wasn’t a single person I didn’t connect with on some level.
That first day was amazing. They lined us up opposite one another (our peers I mean) and we did introductions. There were perhaps 15 of us all together, and I won’t go into too much detail about each specific person although each influenced my travels in some way, and those that I grew close with will remain good friends for the rest of my life I hope, if only because the incredibly stressful nature of the course lent itself to bonding and instant comradery.
One of the things I noticed first about the other students was the insane way they all dressed (of course, to them I must have appeared equally strange.) Furthermore, it should be noted that I reckoned pretty much all of the British men to be gay at first (with the exception of Seif). Now, I’m not trying to be funny or to say that I, or Americans in general are some kind of alpha-male he-men(that would be a stretch)….
Pictured above from left to right: America, England, England’s gay lover.
It was just that I was ignorant I guess, or that British culture has a different concept of masculinity as far as I can understand it. (bad-British-gaydar).
Back to my point- the fashion was totally different. One of the ‘chaps’ I met named Joe, who turned out to be one of the funniest class clown characters I’ve ever met, was actually wearing this shirt on the first day of class:
Now that’s what I call a solid first impression.
At this point I realized I was missing something and kept my mouth shut.
I also met Dave, another Brit and self proclaimed “camp” teacher in training. Dave has ended up becoming one of the tightest friends I’ve ever made, and I will hopefully be able to kick it with him for the rest of my life. You’ll be hearing a lot more about Dave, as we eventually tore up a large portion of Europe together salting the earth as we passed through and generally being total badasses along the way. Moving on..
So, there were four Americans: Me; Andrew Meeks (my roommate); Tamara this incredibly gorgeous girl from the Midwest, and Andrew Massey, the only other Southerner I was going to meet for a long time and an all around great guy.
The majority of students were British, though there was a Canadian red-head named Hayley, an Austrian called Martin, and then of course, the token Czech guy also named Martin.
The first day was mostly that, meeting, greeting, getting to know one another and the teacher trainers (who were amazing by the way). It all passed by in a blur, and that evening my flat mates and I made a big meal and prepared for the next day, when we would be thrown to the lions—I.E. a room full of Czech adults eager to learn our mother tongue…but that’s a whole ‘nother story.
The all stars of ESL
Prague!
The plane landed with a thud and I, still blurry and confused with the anxiety medicine I’d taken (hate flying), woke up completely disoriented. To my surprise, the other passengers quite suddenly erupted into a fit of applause. I hoped this was more of a “happy to be home” clap than “thank God we’re still alive” enthusiasm..though I was none the wiser as I’d been virtually comatose up to that point.
Regardless, I was in Europe. The dream had been long in the making, but finally I’d travelled half way round the world and at last here I was, in a place much older and different from my native soil. I’m sure many of you reading who are worldly can remember the first time you arrived in another continent… a beautiful and memorable moment ensued when I was overcome with the reality of all this, until eventually I was seized by the need to get my head on straight and make my way onward.
I was an alien, but I was as excited and giddy as a ten year old on Christmas morning- nothing was going to slow me down.
Finally staggering into the terminal I met my first Czech. I forget his name but he was a hell of a nice guy. I’m not sure what tipped him off (probably because he picked up the last checked bag and realized I was still standing there) but he realized about the same time I did that the airline had lost my luggage.
I don’t know what people have experienced with LOT (Polish airlines), but they are terrible at checking bags, handling bags, finding lost bags, and anything else bag related. They do give free booze on transatlantic flights, however. Anyway, I guess this Czech fellow (who was only about my age) was used to it, because he explained to me where I had to go to get the situation rectified, even telling me some useful Czech phrase (which I can only imagine translated to “where is my bag you Polack bastards?!”)
It didn’t matter, nothing was going to ruin this moment for me. I’d been dreaming of going to another country my whole life, and my courage and enthusiasm could not be daunted (for at least another week.) The young guy stood with me for ten minutes (seriously, Czech people are awesome for the most part, but more on that later) I thanked him, got his Email address, and went on my way
The baggage people kindly explained that my baggage was in Cairo, that they would call me as soon as they could get it (which was great considering I had no Czech phone). They offered to pay for some clothes, but they wanted me to fill out a five page form which I was too excited to do, plus there was supposed to be a cab waiting for me.
The guy must have been 100, but he definitely had a sign that said Pevey.
Now, in my insular existence, I’d never met someone who spoke absolutely no English whatsoever. I mean, rationally I knew they existed, but I was so green at this point that, I don’t know, I just couldn’t really conceive of a situation where I had absolutely no way to communicate something to a person nor him to me.
Knowing that this cab driver was employed by my school, I repeated the phrase “they lost my bags,” in English about ten times, before realizing that A) he had no fucking clue what I was saying and B) what I was doing was disrespectful and downright foolish. To his credit, the cabby just good naturedly shrugged, and pointed to the “Pevey” sign he carried, never once getting frustrated at this dumbass American’s assumption that he could speak English if only repeated slowly numerable times. It was a mistake I saw many Americans make during my travels, and each time I realized just how ignorant and arrogant it really was. Furthermore, I would have people do the same thing to me in Czech, as if I would magically learn the language if they yelled it loudly enough at me.
Anyway, that was when I met Andrew, who was to be my flat mate for the next few months.
I could see right away that Andrew was a good fellow. He was from Michigan. Quiet at first, but we soon became good friends, and still are. At 23 he was already much more worldly than me, and you could just tell he knew ‘how to travel’. He told me about his Spanish girlfriend and his recent trip to Holland. The cab ride back was nice, and the countryside looked to me a bit like Pennsylvania. On the outskirts of Prague most of the buildings were built during communism, and therefore not too exciting architecturally.
I had no idea what my living situation would be like, only that the school had set us up with a place. We pulled up to a building about 20 stories high, which was just one of perhaps fifteen building in a row that looked precisely the same (in fact it resembled a row of dominoes).
Cab man gave Andrew and I a set of keys, a map and a letter from the school. The place was great I mean furnished, a TV, a balcony, washing machine– pretty much everything a bachelor could want aside from a stripper pole.
We chose rooms, and, with a sigh of relief that came with the knowledge that I’d finally completed my journey in full, I proceeded to pass out for about five lovely hours.
I’d made it, I was in Praha.
Prague never lets you go… this dear little mother has sharp claws.” ~Franz Kafka.
I was in for it. Over the next two months, I was to find out just what he meant.
From left to right: Ayesha, Andrew, Haylee, Seif, and me. All students of Nov 2009 CELTA course in Prague. This is the St. Vitus cathedral inside Prague Castle.
Blogging time!
It has been quite a while since last I wrote, but I find myself now with the first bit of down-time in a great while, and resolve to myself to set about the task of writing down the things that have occupied me so completely over this winter. I’ll try to break up the entries by where I was at the time, starting with the day I left and leading up to the present. If anyone is offended by the way I describe a certain place, custom, or person please feel free to fill my comment box with crude, insulting language (although I think my only 2-4 readers are family and friends- hi guys!)
To those of you from random corners of the web, sorry- I calls em like I see em.
Hope you enjoy!
SJP
One week left at home
This is it, my last week. I should be excited, but I’m having to stop the swirling dervishes of negativity and angst from clouding my thoughts. Adventure is the thing that makes life worth living. To see different things is to grow, to learn, to expand. I can’t spend my life in Shreveport, as much as I’d like to subconsciously.
But what to do with a last week? How to suck the marrow from a home you’ve known 24 years– how to make it special?
Today I’m watching my last Saints game. Can you imagine, the saints go 5-0 for the first time in years, the tigers are in the top ten, and it just happens to be the year I leave. Go figure. I’m going to find a place to get my football fix once I get over there. If the saints go to the big game, I’m sure I’ll be able to find a way to tune in and watch. Maybe I’ll even find another Saints fan somewhere out there.
But enough about football, I’ve to much on my mind to really care about it that much right now. There is a sad part about this. I’ve been dating this wonderful girl for around 6 months, and even though I always told her I was planning to leave, we inevitably got attached to one another anyway, as people do. But even if I told her I wanted to stay for her she wouldn’t let me, and I’ve messed up changing my life for relationships one too many times anyhow. I just hope I see her again, at least once.
I’m having a going away party at her house this week, and all my friends will be stopping by to wish me bon-voyage.
But I just can’t decide what to do until then….
The ESL Job market
I doubt I’ll be able to get a job in Prague. It seems the area is saturated with teachers and that steady jobs are difficult to come by– at least based on what I have read from others. I had hoped on working in the Czech Republic, but it seems like the visa issues for an American might be insurmountable. I like everything I’ve read about it, but its possible it won’t suit me anyway. I’ve only got a one way ticket, and I’m not going to have a home to return to. That being said, there really is no way to know where I might end up. I was hoping to go to Brno after the course, rent a hostel and look for work. It will be December thought, and most schools should be out on holiday. I am interested to know what other students have planned for after the course.
On America
What does the world think about us?
Never having traveled, I don’t know the answer, except what I’ve heard second hand. It is a question I am anxious to answer myself.
The stereotype I hear the most is that we are aggressive. Now, once again, the fact that I have seen so little of the world puts me at a disadvantage. Yet it is true that I’ve grown up in an aggressive world, and have always just assumed that man was an overtly aggressive animal. Growing up I had to fight, there was no choice in it. Now, I didn’t grow up in the hood, on the street- I come from a fairly well to do affluent background. When I think about how aggressive my world was, I can not begin to imagine what it was like for some of the kids I grew up with- mostly black kids who were poor and lived in the inner city. They fought day to day, tooth and nail, just to survive.
But I’m diverging from my point. What I’m hoping is that my somewhat misanthropic assumptions about humanity are misguided by my experiences in the American South. I am hoping that the human animal is not always so hostile, so aggressive. I am hoping that it is an American thing, not a people thing. Time will tell.
What else do they say? They say we are loud.
Yes, we like to be heard. But, are we loud unnecessarily?
I’m planing on not even opening my mouth for the first month overseas. As my friend Cody always says, “you have two ears but just one mouth for a reason.”
Here’s to the world, and to mankind.
A Fresh Start
In two weeks I’ll be leaving everything I’ve ever known- and I don’t know when I’ll be back.
Prague first, the Capital of the Czech Republic. CELTA course- the “Cambridge English Language Teaching of Adults” course.
I’m petrified.
After that the world is my oyster…and I reckon on going where the jobs are. I’m hoping on Europe, but they say its hard these days for an American. Asia? Africa?
At 24, I’ve never lived outside of Louisiana…well, that’s not entirely true. During Katrina’s aftermath I had to live in New Hampshire for three months.
I’ve never been outside of the country, except for a weekend in Montreal during said Northern exposure.
Hard to say why I’m doing this. I graduated from Tulane in 2007, and moved back to my home town of Shreveport with my Fiancee. We worked in real-estate until the bubble burst about a year ago. But, we did get a nice house out of the deal…which we remodeled together. Unfortunately, about the time we moved in, we had to find new jobs. My Fiancee got a job at a restaurant downtown, had “a connection” with one of the line-cooks, and within two weeks had started spending the night at his house.
Go figure…
I ended up actually having to pay her out of pocket for the ‘work’ she did on the house. Still, I’m not a victim, I’m just an idiot…
So then I went back to doing the only thing I had ever really been able to do. I got a job as a cook. I bounced around restaurant to restaurant in Shreveport, made some pretty good friends (cooks are a transient lot, much like pirates). Mostly though, I just spent my time getting drunk, fucking up gourmet dishes, screwing any female foolish enough to wander too close to me, and attempted day by day to recover from my thoroughly broken heart.
I lost my job, a few months ago. I spent my time writing, sometimes actually making a little money doing bullshit product reviews. And now hear I am.
I’ve got enough money in the bank (from the sale of some minerals I acquired during my time in real estate) to see me through several months. I’ve got my plane ticket in my hand, my fresh Louisiana tattoo (to stave of the homesickness), and am ready to take my chances on a jet-plane… as Robert Plant sung “Never let them tell you that they’re all the same.”
Hello world!
Welcome to WordPress.com. This is your first post. Edit or delete it and start blogging!
