We rolled out of bed a little later this morning, and I made fried eggs and toast for breakfast in the downstairs kitchen. The seldom-used coffee maker was upstairs, and I was cleaning it out when Herr Dursley poked his head in. "Hello!" He said with a sleepy but clear sense of alarm. His English was not so good, but he made it clear that neither I nor the other second floor filthy scum were permitted in the upstairs kitchen. "You are mess. You make mess. Did Frau Baumann no tell you?" he asked incredulously.
As point of fact, Frau Baumann told me that I could use the downstairs kitchen, not that I was precluded from the use of the upstairs kitchen. But the n English is not Frau Baumann's strong suit.
Anyway, I assured Herr Dursley that I would not sully his kitchen (actually, the upstairs kitchen was pristine) or his presence (not so pristine) again if I had anything to do with it.
I don't even know his name- this is the only time we've exchange words. I've met the other strange guy upstairs, Oleg, who is also very standoffish, but at least we've exchanged names. They're just two late 40s guys who have lived in the house forever and keep very private lives.
On the filthy scum floor, we have me, Danielle, Shiva, and Chandra. Danielle is German, maybe a bit older than me, a later in life university student working on a masters in marketing and psychology. She also keeps very much to herself. I've only actually seen her twice in the time I've been at Camp Fox.
I run into Chandra and Shiva all the time. They're two young Indians and both are very congenital. One is from the north, one is from the south and so they have to speak English to communicate. Chandra sometimes drives poor Shiva downstairs to the kitchen from his snoring, but he makes a delicious Indian chai tea with cloves, cardamon, ginger, sugar, milk and a hint of pepper. They are always offering me some of whatever they are cooking. Needless to say, it's a good thing I like the smell of Indian cooking since it permanently smells like marsala in there now.
Frau Baumann moved out. She used to live with her husband downstairs, but after he died, she found other accommodation.
As point of fact, Frau Baumann told me that I could use the downstairs kitchen, not that I was precluded from the use of the upstairs kitchen. But the n English is not Frau Baumann's strong suit.
Anyway, I assured Herr Dursley that I would not sully his kitchen (actually, the upstairs kitchen was pristine) or his presence (not so pristine) again if I had anything to do with it.
I don't even know his name- this is the only time we've exchange words. I've met the other strange guy upstairs, Oleg, who is also very standoffish, but at least we've exchanged names. They're just two late 40s guys who have lived in the house forever and keep very private lives.
On the filthy scum floor, we have me, Danielle, Shiva, and Chandra. Danielle is German, maybe a bit older than me, a later in life university student working on a masters in marketing and psychology. She also keeps very much to herself. I've only actually seen her twice in the time I've been at Camp Fox.
I run into Chandra and Shiva all the time. They're two young Indians and both are very congenital. One is from the north, one is from the south and so they have to speak English to communicate. Chandra sometimes drives poor Shiva downstairs to the kitchen from his snoring, but he makes a delicious Indian chai tea with cloves, cardamon, ginger, sugar, milk and a hint of pepper. They are always offering me some of whatever they are cooking. Needless to say, it's a good thing I like the smell of Indian cooking since it permanently smells like marsala in there now.
Frau Baumann moved out. She used to live with her husband downstairs, but after he died, she found other accommodation.
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