He is not missing; he is here

In last week’s Gunsmoke File, I told of the time I was cycling in Belgium, quite possibly the most boring country on the planet for such an activity. Geometrically flat, damp and insufferably dull I found myself almost delirious with delight when I saw a barn or a road sign and had an object on which to focus while I crawled past. And crawl I did due to the ferocious headwind which was doing it’s best to push me back the way I’d come.

It didn’t help that I was still feeling the effects of some exceptionally strong beer the previous night so by the time I finally reached the outskirts of Ypres, my goal for the evening, I was grubby, ill-tempered and very, very tired. A solitary meal in an overpriced restaurant a few miles back hadn’t done much to lift my spirits and I was just looking forward to a lie down.

Until I entered the town proper by riding through an imposing archway known as the Menin Gate. We studied the First World War in school and I was already familiar with many of the names on my map. Ypres, Mons and Passchendaele had all been sites of bloody battles and the dull, flat fields which had bored me interminably as I rode through, had seen some of the worst carnage in human history only a few decades earlier.

North-western Europe is peppered with cemeteries holding the graves of the war dead. Geometric lines of brilliant white gravestones set on neatly trimmed lawns, they are somber, moving places and it’s hard to leave without being touched by the sacrifice made by those young men. Throughout Belgium, Holland and France local families take responsibility for ensuring that "their" soldier’s grave will be kept clean, tidy and manicured. They have done so for decades and will continue to do so as long as the graves are there.

Yet it’s a tragic fact that many of the fallen, particularly from the first war, have no graves. Many thousands of bodies were never recovered and the official war records list those soldiers simply as "Missing, believed killed." When peace finally came and all hope for their return was gone, the families of the lost men found their grief especially poignant. These relatives and friends had no grave to visit, nowhere to pay their last respects, nowhere to find closure.

So, it was decided that in Ypres, near where so many were known to have died, a memorial would be erected in honor of those whose bodies were never recovered. Originally there was talk of the British Government purchasing the land around the area and turning the entire town into a memorial to the Allied fallen. This was deemed impractical however. While years of war had reduced Ypres to little more than rubble, many Belgians still considered it home and they were anxious to return. Instead a memorial comprising of a mausoleum within a magnificent classical archway was built at the entrance to the town, over the river Menin.

Inside and out, huge panels contain the engraved names of the men of the Commonwealth forces who died in the Ypres Salient area but have no known graves. There are almost 55,000 of them and yet, immense though the Menin Gate is; this still didn’t come close to recording the names of all the missing soldiers. The Menin Gate contains only the names of those who died in the area between the outbreak of the war in 1914 and August 1917. Those who died between then and the end of the war, a little over a year later, are listed at another memorial, located in Tyne Cot Cemetery, on the slopes just below Passchendaele. 35,000 more.

And remember, these are just those whose bodies were never recovered.

At 8pm prompt, every single night of the year, the traffic through the gate is brought to a halt. Police guard the entrance and stand at salute while buglers from the local fire department play "The Last Post". This happens regardless of the weather and visitors from all over the world gather alongside the residents of the town to honor the young and brave who came to die in the defense of their town.

The service has taken place almost continuously since 1927. During the Second World War, when Ypres was occupied, the ceremony was banned. Yet the townspeople kept the bugles safe, and when the Germans finally left Ypres in 1945, the plaintive notes of the Last Post rang out under the Menin Gate that same night.

Evening was falling by the time I arrived in town and I knew I wouldn’t have time to find a hotel, wash, change and return in time. So instead, I sat by the side of the road and looked back the way I’d come. Across that vast expanse of flat nothing and tried to imagine the horrors that had taken place in those fields.

At a few minutes before 8, I smartened myself up as much as possible, and then stood at attention with the others while the haunting tune rang out into damp, cool night. Beside me stood an elderly white-haired gentleman, frail and stooped but at attention nonetheless. This was in 1988, exactly 70 years since the war’s end. Was he old enough, I wondered. Old enough to have been there? I glanced over to appraise the lines on his face, but when I saw the tears streaming down his cheeks, I looked away, embarrassed. Yes, he’d been there.

In somber mood, I wheeled my bike away and went in search of a bed. In the days that followed, I clocked up many more hours in the saddle, crossing into France before turning north and heading up the coast to catch the ferry home. The scenery changed as the miles rolled by, with the flat brown fields giving way to rolling hills and flower strewn meadows. The headwind didn’t let up though, fighting me with every turn of the crank no matter in which direction I was riding. Each night I flopped into bed, stiff, sore, thoroughly exhausted, and glad that another day was over.

Yet of course, I knew that my aches were nothing. Nothing compared to the misery suffered by those young men who never left. All 90,000 of them.

"...and now it can be said of each one in whose honour we are assembled here today:

He is not missing; he is here!"

Words from the inscription carved on the Menin Gate, Ypres, Belgium.

Against the Wind

So Belgium’s pretty flat.

By that I mean it’s flat, I don’t mean it’s pretty. Oh, I know it has its attractive parts – some of the squares in Brussels, the inside of its chocolate factories, and the breweries. But the country itself is flat. And dull. Flat and dull. Maybe you already knew that. I already knew that. But I still opted to go there for a cycling vacation. I’m not sure exactly why now, although it had something to do with being able to get there cheaply via car ferry, and I only had 4 days, and I figured I could cover a lot of the country in that time. So, Belgium it was.

And at first, it was really quite pretty. I rolled off the ferry in the early hours of a weekday morning and pointed my bike inland, towards the town of Bruges. This is a charming little place, with cobblestone streets, concertina trams and picturesque squares. Perhaps if I’d simply remained there for the full four days, I might have retained my initial positive impressions of the country. Instead I decided that as the town had yet to wake up, I wouldn’t hang around for breakfast, but would instead trundle on down the road.

But which road? Aye, there’s the rub. In Europe, Michelin road maps are treated with the same sort of reverence that is reserved for AAA’s guides in the US. Inexpensive, reliable and easy to read, a Michelin map is an indispensable tool for any traveler on the asphalt ribbons of that fair Continent and I’d made sure I had a Belgian one in my bag. Except on a number of occasions that first day, I had to check the cover to make sure it really was a map of Belgium and not somewhere else. The People's Republic of Chad, perhaps.

I’m fairly competent when it comes to map reading. Oh sure, I have some challenges working out just how far apart the contours are, and it always throws me when the wee symbols aren’t reproduced on the legend. But I can usually do a reasonably good job of tracking my whereabouts. However, even I’m at a loss when the roads mapped on the paper bear no resemblance to those on the ground, which is what was happening here.

Every 1/2 hour or so, I’d roll into some tiny hamlet and pull over to check my progress. To my consternation I was usually unable to find the village. Initially I figured this was because they were too small to be marked and would continue onwards. Eventually I came to a larger town which simply had to warrant a mention. But, try as I might, I still couldn’t place it. Until I happened to glance some three inches lower and found it miles away from where I thought I was. On a completely different road. But here’s the thing. I was now able to locate some of the places I’d already visited. Except they were all on different roads. Figure that one out.

I’m not sure how many miles I rode that day, but I’m guessing it was around twice the 60 I originally intended. By the time I wobbled into Ghent, that evening’s destination, my legs felt like overcooked noodles, while my poor butt was on fire. The first job was to find a room for the night and while young man at the tourist authority was very helpful, the address he gave me turned out to be that of a bank. I had no enthusiasm for riding any further so I simply walked my bike around the streets until I stumbled onto a small, cheap but clean looking lodging house and checked myself in for the night. Out to dinner and I decided that a quick beer as an aperitif would be just the pick-me-up I needed.

"Would you like a light beer or a dark beer?" asked the barkeep.

"I dunno, dark I suppose." Apparently in Belgium, "dark" is a euphemism for "so strong it will knock out a horse". I realized this was going to be a challenge when I placed my head over the goldfish bowl sized glass and almost passed out from the fumes but never one to resist a challenge, I manfully stuck at the task and after about an hour, finally drained the last drop. Problem was; I didn’t feel much like eating any more. I didn’t feel much like doing anything except lying down on my bed. And even achieving that goal was a challenge because my bed was some half mile away and the sidewalks had decided to bounce up and down, whilst the walls of the buildings took turns at leaping out and punching me.

I awoke the next morning, fully clothed and half off the bed but at least that told me I’d made it home. Southbound today, with a target of Ypres, around 65 miles away. No real problems with the roads this time, it was a straight shot. No, today’s challenge came from the headwind which I would estimate was only a little below hurricane force. You know you’ve got your work cut out when you’re riding a 10-speed bike and have to use the lowest gear to climb the gradient of a freeway overpass. (I should point out, I was in much better condition in those days – but this really was a serious headwind.)

Every piece of garbage and debris in Belgium seemed to be blowing down that road too. No tumbleweeds, but sheets of newspaper, bits of cardboard, dust clouds and on one memorable occasion, an empty coke can which bounced up and hit me in the chest. You know those little wooden sandwich board signs some stores have out on the sidewalk? I watched one of those cartwheel towards me from several hundred yards away.

"That’s going to hit me." I thought. "There’s no point in trying to swerve. Wherever I go, it will hit me." But I did swerve of course, right at the last minute. And for a brief second I thought I’d outsmarted it. But it wasn’t to be – it swerved too. I zigged, it zagged and caught me a pearler, right on the knee. I protested loudly and violently, but my curses were simply snatched away by the wind. Darkness was falling when I finally creaked my way into Ypres. Dirty, tired and very cranky, I was wrapped in a cocoon of self-pity.

Of course, at that point I didn’t know that in Ypres, I would experience something which brings a lump to my throat even now, almost twenty years later.

To be continued...

Anatomy of a Pipe Band Contest

Day 1:

Wake at 6am. Switch off alarm and go back to sleep – plenty of time yet. Wake again at 8am. Way late; this is going to be problem. Look out window and am disappointed, yet somehow not surprised to see it’s cloudy, wet and gray. With sinking heart, realize this means endless jokes about "Typical Scottish weather". Race around like mad thing, loading car, feeding dogs and wondering why didn’t get stuff together night before. In and out of shower in record time before commencing battle with band uniform. Kilts not designed to be put on in hurry. Bad mood intensifies while taking dogs out and feeling fat raindrops splashing on clean, white shirt.

Set off down hill driving faster than Highway Patrol prefer. Scan lead gray sky and wonder if weather will keep crowds away. Or at least enough of them to allow parking close by. Problem turns out to be not crowds, but over-zealous parking attendants.

"If you don’t have a parking permit (nobody has parking permit) then you’ll have to drive to the nearby High School and come back on the shuttle bus."

"Are you kidding me? Look at all the stuff I have to carry! I’m one of the competitors."

"You can park in the unloading zone for 10 minutes, no more."

10 minutes! So-called "unloading zone" is more than 10 minutes walk from designated band site, especially with heavy drum, full cooler, uniform jacket in dry cleaning bag, folding chair, equipment bag and spare clothing. Loading zone also contains at rough estimate, 100 empty spaces. Spaces remain empty all day while band members struggle to carry gear from designated lots three miles away.

Drop off gear at band tent, relocate car to official parking lot and return on shuttle. Grunt "Mornin'" to band mates and set off in search of coffee. Negotiate complicated process of buying tickets from one tent before standing in line for breakfast at another. Vendor has run out of coffee. Explain to vendor that in civilized countries, this is hanging offence.

Head back to band tent and huddle with other sodden band members, trying to keep warm whilst whining about parking situation and attempting to practice drums with bloodless hands. Opening ceremony is at noon and by 11:30 mood changed to one of activity. Pipers are tuned, drummers are warmed up, ties are straightened. At 11:55, march in sort-of-formation over to join other bands in central arena.

Opening ceremony even longer than usual. Officials sit under dry tent whilst making interminable speeches, completely oblivious to participants standing in open field, exposed to elements. Official advises spectators of items on day’s program. Neglects to mention band competition, supposedly main event. Guest speaker conducts long prayer to Christian god, whilst non-Christian band members (overwhelming majority), make irreverent conversation. After opening ceremony, make second attempt to purchase coffee. Only decaff available. Wonder just how far up vendor’s nose drumstick would go.

Not good enough drummer to take part in competition. Instead have official role of cinematographer. Or 'video-bitch' as drum-corporal boorishly puts it. Take chair and borrowed video camera over to competition area and set up camp, wishing had remembered tripod. Competing bands take turns marching into arena before standing in circle facing one another with backs to audience while playing set, so camera focused mainly on kilted backsides with very little action. Audio more important really, however, did get footage of Youth Band drummers grimacing at each other while arguing wordlessly. Finish filming competition before heading back to band tent to drink beer and make catty remarks about other bands.

March back to central arena for closing ceremony, with more interminable speeches enlivened by announcement band has swept board finishing first in all categories. Much back slapping and high-fiving. Point out that good looks of video operator probably swung vote but magnanimously concede that band members who actually played in competition also helped in own small way. More beer drinking ensues. Details hazy.

Day 2:

Wake on time to see beautiful, blue sky. Slather self with sun block and head down hill in buoyant spirits. Hit cloudbank at 7,000 feet. Weather below, cloudy, wet and gray. Ignore parking attendants and leave car in little known hideaway, not too far from band tent. Early arrival means have to help set up waterlogged tent. Discover shirt lying on ground, unmissed 'till now. Head over to food vendor to purchase breakfast. Coffee available, but no food. Think murderous thoughts about food vendor. Take sip of coffee and wonder if previously drunk by someone else.

Sun makes weak attempt to shine in time for opening ceremony. Speeches even longer than yesterday, although largely same material. Announcer neglects to mention pipe band competition again. Observe loudly that "Bands required but not welcome" would be good motto for games. Announcer does remember to introduce every single breed in dog show. Remark on what a lot of breeds there are. By end of opening ceremony, food vendor offering limited range of menu. Unfortunately, vendor now out of coffee. Reflect once more how should have brought own food. And perhaps baseball bat to encourage better future performance from vendor.

Smaller entrance field for band competition so video taping doesn’t take so long. Take mean-spirited pleasure at mistakes of rival band, then listen in bemused horror when rival band marches out to own band’s signature tune. Tacky enough but made worse by horrible rendition. Own band plays very well, so can only hope judges overlook early, but rather noticeable mistake. Other serious competitor makes couple mistakes too. Could go either way.

Closing ceremony ninety minutes away so pass time drinking beer, swapping jokes and making more catty remarks about rival bands. Learn parking attendants are arranging to have cars towed from "unloading zone". Sympathize with band members hurrying off to move cars.

Grumble incessantly over new rule forbidding bands to take beer onto field for closing ceremony. Grumble even more when see official responsible for rule parading around field with beer in hand.

"I’m not in uniform, you are." Says official, with smirk.

Mollified by news that band has won competition again. Good looks of video-operator must really carry some weight with judges.

Pack up soaking wet tent and stare in dismay at amount of crap to be carried to car. Give thanks for helpful steward with golf-cart who carries heavy stuff. On to band member's house for beer, pizza and more self-congratulation.

Reflect on how last two days have been nothing but cold, wet weather, irritating officials, and minor slights, incompetent vendors and petty annoyances.

Spent in company of great bunch of people while kicking arses of all-comers. What a great weekend it’s been.

Rendezvous with Destiny

"Well, if nothing else," remarked Dear Wife as we bumped and creaked our way along the forest service road "we’re seeing some good potential camping spots". I couldn’t help but agree although the further we drove into uncharted (at least for us) territory, the more I wondered just exactly what we’d find when we eventually arrived at the Mountain Man Rendezvous. It was our first, and we really didn’t know what to expect.

170 years ago, the Mountain Man Rendezvous was basically one big honkin’ party for the fur trappers, and natives who spent the rest of the year living off the land while they collected pelts of all descriptions to sell at this once a year get together. For most, it was the only time of the year they could let rip and have some fun. Not only was it the occasion to sell furs and trade for new supplies, but also to meet up with old friends, swap stories and lies, and most importantly, get roaring drunk on rot-gut alcohol.

Contests were held as the trappers and Indians showed their ability with rifle, tomahawk and knife. There were also running races, jumping contests and horse races. Even better, there was gambling. Exciting times indeed and things only got better when the trading company finally showed up.

Now, the trappers and Indians could trade their hard earned pelts for the items that they needed to get them through the coming year – powder and lead, blankets, utensils, clothes, tobacco, food, hats, rifles, knives and other items too numerous to mention. And, once all the year’s necessities had been purchased, the rest of the credit could be spent on the serious business of partying. Alcohol and women were available for the asking and by the time things wound down, after about two weeks, few had any money remaining.

Within a surprisingly short time however, the west was settled by pioneers and farmers moving west. Top hats made of Chinese silk became the fashion and the beaver pelt trade disappeared almost overnight. The men who’d made their solitary living by hunting, fishing and trapping became an anachronism although like the cowboy, were still able to show off their talents at the rodeos, many of which survive to this day.

Fortunately, historical enthusiasts have revived the traditions of the Mountain Man Rendezvous and many use their vacation time to travel to camps around the west where they dress in period costume, give classes in pioneer skills and as much as is possible in the 21st century, live the way the original mountain men would have done. There are three rendezvous held each year in our area and while I’ve read a lot about them, have never managed to see one until now so was looking forward to it no end. But I was experiencing a nagging doubt that the whole thing might be overrated and we were simply going to roll up to a campsite with half a dozen good ol’ boys sitting in lawn chairs, and drinking Bud Light whilst wearing funny clothes.

So it was something of a relief to skirt a small hill and see an entire village of tepees, tents and other period looking shelters off in the distance. This, we later learned, was the 'Primitive Camp', for those who took their reenactments seriously. There were two modern camps as well, one allowing generators, the other not, but they were parked discreetly out of sight. A gentleman wearing period costume and a red and white striped shirt that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a rodeo clown directed us into the parking area where we took our place alongside the diesel trucks and SUVs favored by so many modern-day mountain men.

A short hike along the trail took us to the admission tent where a young man with a…’period’ accent directed us inside where a helpful lady gave us a leaflet explaining the rules (Primitive clothing must be worn in Primitive Camp between 6pm and 8am; No post 1840 weapons in camp; among others) and told us to enjoy our visit.

That set the tone for the day. One in which we were visiting with some incredibly polite people. Not just friendly in the way that so many Americans are, but out and out gracious. I’m not sure if this was all part of the period act, or if these were simply exceptionally affable people but it became a little disconcerting after a while as we felt the need to respond in kind and each conversation took on an unreal tone. Everybody wanted to know if we were on vacation, or just up from the city for the day. As most were from out of state, few were familiar with our hometown of Bailey although one gent from Nebraska recollected that he got gas there.

"What did you eat?" I asked, but as my humor so often does, it went way over his head.

"I didn’t eat" he replied, "but I remember paying a lot to fill up my truck."

The period costumes were a sight to see, ranging from ladies in gingham dresses to gents wearing anything from Davy Crocket style frontiersman outfits, to Last of the Mohicans type buckskin leggings. (Note to any prospective Mountain Man re-enactors – leather leggings with bare thighs is not a good look for most guys, no matter how dashing Daniel Day-Lewis looked in the movie.)

And so we moseyed along the row of vendors selling reproductions of early 19th century goods. Period clothing, hats, knives, eyeglasses, and jewelry as you’d expect but each with that authentic home-made look that distinguished them from the modern day article. A lot of the stuff appeared to be genuine antique, others were obviously new but created with care to ensure it was as close as possible to that which would have been on sale 170 years ago.

Sadly, the prices were quite definitely 21st century, and while there were lots of fascinating goodies, none of them quite fit into the ‘have to have’ category. I would willingly have paid over the odds for something to eat, and fully expected to, but it turned out none of the food vendors had arrived yet. I saw a guy dressed in buckskin leggings working his way through a tasty looking turkey sandwich but he told me he’d brought that himself.

And so it was, that hunger drove us away. Back to our air-conditioned car and the paved road and the town, where food comes pre-caught, pre-packaged and pre-cooked. Not very 19th century and I feel we’ve lost a lot of the charm along the way.

Didn’t stop me from eating it though.

One Night in Bangkok

The air has a tangible quality. Heavy with moisture and thick with the pungent smells of Asia; a combination of spices, rotting vegetation and stagnant water. I stare at the rain washing down in sheets and try not to think about the sunshine I left the day before. The voice in my head suggests simply spending the rest of the night here at the airport, where it’s clean and safe and familiar. If I did that, I could set out for the city in daylight. Things would look better in daylight.

Instead I hoist my backpack, its crisp, clean freshness marking me as a beginner, onto my shoulders and step out into the rain, the oily syrup coating my new white Reeboks as I wade across the concourse to the highway where the buses run. I know the bus I want, Bangkok buses are numbered and run frequently. But I’m still not sure how I’ll know when I’ve arrived at my destination. No time to worry though because in moments the bus arrives and I clamber aboard.

The conductor is a young boy; I would guess around 12 or 13. I attempt to pay the fare but he waves my money away contemptuously. Worse, he indicates that I must disembark at the next stop; some 200 yards from the airport gates. A few minutes later another bus rolls up and I try again. This one takes me out of sight of the airport but once more I’m deposited unceremoniously on the curb. The conductors speak no English and of course, I speak no Thai so it is not for another 2 days, and many more failed bus rides that I realize I’ve been attempting to purchase a 3 cent ticket with the rough equivalent of a $50 bill.

Wet, cold and thoroughly dispirited, I make my way back to the lights of the airport. I see signs for limousine service to the city center, but backpackers don’t travel by limo; and for me, it was public transport or nothing. This perverse determination prevented me from learning that in this instance “limousine” simply referred to government authorized taxis, with fixed pricing and honest drivers. Far safer and much cheaper than the rent-a-cab I flagged down to take me into town.

"I need a cheap hotel." I tell the driver, "Somewhere near the Grand Palace."
"No problem meestah" he replies, with a smile and a flick of the meter. And we pull away from the curb and into the Bangkok night. Bangkok’s traffic is gridlock on a scale we can barely imagine. Lines of vehicles spread from one side of the road to the other, eight or nine deep, with no respect for lane markings, traffic lights or the smog-masked traffic police waving futilely in the center of each intersection. It’s every man for himself and in the black rain, the steel river ebbs and flows with glacial slowness.

Several times my driver pulls off the road and bumps his way along dirt alleys and along swollen canals. Away from the streetlights my sleep-deprived paranoia takes on epic proportions. Where are we going? Is he planning to pull a gun on me? Take me away from the safety of the main thoroughfares, to where accomplices lie in wait? A professional gang preying on naïve foreigners, fresh off the plane in a state of wide-eyed innocence? Or, as invariably turns out to be the case, is he simply attempting to beat the traffic by taking a short cut.

After about an hour where we barely cover 5 miles, he turns to me with his big smile once more in place and asks

"So meestah, you ready to see Bangkok?"

I stare gloomily into the darkness outside my window and wonder if there’s anything I’d like less right now. Because of course, he doesn’t want to show me Bangkok the city; but its seamy underbelly. I’m so tired I can barely hold up my head but he assumes I’m simply one more European guy in Bangkok for the sex trade. I place my palms together by the side of my head and tell him no, I’m too tired. So instead, he does as I ask and takes me to a hotel. But not the cheap lodgings I wanted.

Most backpackers traveling through Asia in the early 90’s would eventually gravitate to Bangkok’s Khao San Road, where inexpensive hostels, travel agencies and cafés make it a crossroads for travelers, as Katmandu was a generation before. A year later when I pass this way again on my way to China, I steer newcomers round the area like the veteran gypsy I am. Except this night, only 20 hours into my round-the-world venture, I’ve never heard of Khao San Road; don’t even know of its existence and am at the mercy of a cab driver who can take me anywhere he pleases.

I was budgeting $6 a day and anticipated paying no more than $2 for my lodgings. His choice, at $90 a night was too rich for my blood. As was the next at $40. By the time we find a place for $20 I’m too tired to argue further – it will do for tonight. Checking me in, the reception clerk wags a finger in my face and warns

"Welcome to Bangkok Sir, but tonight, you sleep alone!"

Yes I smile, tonight I sleep alone. Except sleep doesn’t come. Jet-lagged, exhausted and more than a little overwhelmed, I lie in bed and listen to the roar of the air-conditioning as it fights ineffectively against the oppressive humidity. I need to keep it turned on however, to drown the noise of the bullfrogs in the swamp outside. By 1am, I’m sitting upright and reading my book. By 2am, I’m dressed and heading back out into the streets.

I don’t even know where in Bangkok I am although it’s apparently one of the city’s nightlife hubs. Every other building is a bar, or a massage parlor or a hotel with rooms by the hour or the night, horizontal mirrors extra. The sidewalks glow red with the reflections of the neon lights. Even at this hour, the streets are filled with foreign visitors. Sailors, tourists and businessmen, each dressed in the uniforms of their respective callings. Breathtakingly pretty girls clutch my arm and ask if I would like to be their friends. I smile politely and keep walking.

Am I ready to see Bangkok? No, I’m really not. Right now I just want a beer, and a cigarette, and a sit down.

But tomorrow, ah, who knows what will happen tomorrow.