Studly Abroad

This entry will have nothing to do with studs, so maybe I should save that title for some occasion where I will have to deal with small bits of metal on pants, attractive yet prolific males, or man-horses. Or maybe not. Maybe I will just write it now because I think it is funny.

I'm in my room blogging because I am exhausted from talking. The morning for me consisted of three ten-minute sessions of filling out paperwork, sprinkled in three hours of sitting around in groups, talking while drinking coffee. There are roughly 50 other Junior Year Munich students here this semester, and all of them, every single one, makes me feel like an underachiever. Which is an accomplishment.

I thought I had a high ACT score? Theirs is 2 points higher! I thought I was a big deal, traveling around Europe by myself for three months? Big deal, they've been here for four! I thought I had an extensive knowledge of the German language? Big deal, a girl who's been studying it for half as long as I have can chatter away fluently because she READS NOVELS TO HERSELF OUT LOUD!

Who DOES that??

I guess if I go on to grad school next year, I'm going to have to get used to this. I'm going to have to remember that this level of perfectionism and education is not normal, that these people are the top twenty percent of the top one percent of the world in pretty much all respects, that most people cannot afford to send their children to Florida much less to Germany for a semester.

Still, I feel like I should probably buy some polo shirts and carry around my copy of Ulysses, just in case.

Sex und der Stadt

Munich is nice.

When I arrived, my room was covered in dust and, inexplicably, hardware tools. Now, after I've spent three hours frantically exploding my suitcase into it, it's full of scarves and my clothes and shoes and laundry. It's a single unit with a bunch of shelving, a tiny cookstove, a weenie refrigerator, a curtained closet, and a bathroom that is all one hard curved piece of plastic, like in an airplane or mobile home. It isn't home yet, but it will be soon.

What's nicest is that I'm alone. My room may be grungy, but it is mine, and so I have the freedom to do things like this, namely not wear pants while typing on a laptop. It isn't only my needlessly-exposed legs -- I'm feeling ever more like Carrie Bradshaw recently in other ways, too. Not only am I often confused about what men are thinking, which leads me to ask a lot of rhetorical questions, I do silly, television-worthy things like I did yesterday when -- not listening to the German instructions being read over the loudspeaker on a subway -- I looked up to find that the train had stopped somewhere between stations. The tunnel was dark. Moreover, there were no other passengers on board. I panicked, then pressed the call button, and soon a man came along the tracks and told me through the window, "Three minutes!" It seems I should have taken the BLUE line instead of the RED line, which is a mistake you can't put down to the language barrier.

Mostly, though, this Carrie-feeling is because I don't have a real job, I just blog a hell of a lot. Especially while wearing silly outfits. And my hair has never been bigger.

(Even if I'm not quite sure who my Big is!)

I am at the most harried airport restaurant in the world. The staff are all little women and men dressed in black who rush around grabbing plates off tables and slopping baked beans onto the giant white plates with no care for the beauty of the meal presented. This is all I think because of the girl they have standing downstairs with a sign that says “Full Irish Breakfast 9.95”.

Even though it's 6 in the morning, the price is cheap enough to attract hordes of males, namely the sort of Irish frat boy that is sitting at the table behind me. It was certainly cheap enough to attract me, even though if you convert the currencies (I've been trying not to) it’s fifteen dollars for three types of meat and some dubious-looking scrambled eggs, BEVERAGE NOT INCLUDED. Luckily I’m vegetarian, so it’s less. The tomatoes, hastily-slopped baked beans, toast, an egg, and coffee I got for 6.95 were still more than enough food to make my digestive system rather surprised to be eating things at the wee hour of 5:45 am.

The general fervor at this restaurant is in keeping with my morning so far, which began at four fucking thirty. I got the airport shuttle all right, but at the bag drop desk, the Aer Lingus representative informed me that my massive blue bag weighed 28 kilograms.The limit is 20. It’s 12 euro per pound extra (which is eighteen dollars – I converted in my head before I could stop myself).

“Er… what would you suggest I do about it?” I made that face my mother gets when she’s distressed or dubious about something – the eyes sort of crinkle downwards, and we can’t help it, we sort of grimace, or smile.

The guy was very blonde, very gruff, very pub-looking. He took no guff from nobody, and had been up since the night before dealing with stupid tourists. Still, he sighed and went, “You got a carry-on there?”

“I do!” I said. “Yes!”

“Well, I’d try to shove some stuff in there.”

I had been hoping it was something less obvious, like maybe there was some kind of magical charm I could produce that would render my suitcase multiple kilograms lighter, but instead I went with a heavy heart into a roped-off corner of shame, unzipping the beast and spreading its useless, heavy crap everywhere.

How had it come to this? Apparently the majority of my luggage was nameless paper scrap, receipts, nearly-empty bottles, and just, in general, dirt. Why did I keep these things? And how could they add up to eight extra kilograms? I had to throw away something heavy, and fast, so I chucked my lovely fifteen-euro rubber Wellington boots into a garbage can. Then I put on my winter coat over my spring one. Sweating and straining, I went back to the desk and hauled my bag on the scale proudly in front of the man.

It was two kilograms over. I inhaled in quiet desperation and mild panic.

Then, deus ex machina: “You’re fine,” he said, sticking a “HEAVY” tag on my bag. I suddenly wanted to marry him.

And now I’m sitting in this airport bar, relieved, feet on my 9.8-kilogram backpack, and I’m supposing that this should all teach me something but probably doesn’t. I’m drinking cold coffee and wondering how early a person should get to her airport gate (isn’t this something I should know by now?) – I’m fed, safe, have gone through security, and because of these things I am feeling like maybe Ireland isn’t all that bad. Certainly there have been times where I felt like I should be somewhere more exotic, but on the whole, the people are generous, sort of nonchalantly so. And all that rain does make things pretty afterwards.

Here are the things I will miss:

I will miss that they know what I say when I say “coffee”, mostly, and it isn’t an Americano.

I will miss that their current recession makes ours look like nothing at all, and I’ll miss how very lasses-faire the country is being about it. The news coverage makes it seem like everyone in Ireland is just collectively shrugging and going, “Well, guess I’ll have another pint,” unless they’ve lost their jobs, in which case they are, probably, not. Hopefully.

I will miss the fact that they sometimes say my accent is delightful. This is in contrast to Germany, where it will be incomprehensible.

I will miss their businesslike, well-behaved dogs, who fetch papers and trot ahead of their masters cheerfully.

I will miss the fact that their networks constantly replay The Simpsons, Futurama, Malcolm in the Middle, and Sex and the City. It’s like being stuck in the 90s, but in the best way ever.

I will miss that these people fry tomatoes for breakfast. And their bread, oh god their bread, their bread!

I will miss the guy in a suit who just sprinted past, clutching his briefcase, oiled hair bobbing in the wind as he yelled, “Well, fuck it!”.

I will miss their woodstoves, which make the whole street smell like fall in the country even when it’s dreary winter in the city.

I will miss that the Irish say “turd” instead of “third”, which lends an American in every conversation with the number in it to snigger in a slightly superior manner and get distracted when it comes up.

I will miss the fact that their drinking habits make anyone else's look reasonable and practical by comparison. I will miss that they go to bed not at 5 am – who does that? Come on, Spain – but, in general, at 2. Then they get up the next morning at 8 and do it again. As one of the teachers at my friend’s school said, “We sacrifice sleep to have a good time,” which explains why nearly everyone who is 30 here could pass for 50 in America.

I will miss the city of Cork. I wish we had Cork in the States. Maybe it could move there, or I could move here.

I will miss the country's incredibly combative newspapers, “combative” both in the sense that there are I think fifteen of them for a nation slightly larger than my state, and in the sense that their headlines often scream things like “POPE KNEW PERVERT TO EXIST!”. They have rather spotty and repetitive news coverage, but rather excellent editorials and little short pieces about nothing.

Most importantly, where else on the planet can you go horseback riding on the beach for fifteen euro? I’m sure it happens, but only in countries where you can’t go look at hundred-dollar wool sweaters afterward and bitch about the price.

I have a flight to catch, I think, so I’d better leave all these lonely men to their baked beans and drip coffee. It's raining, which is fitting. Goodbye, Ireland!

Internationalismuskeit

It turns out I really cannot successfully write in the manner of Ernest Hemingway, no matter how much I drink, so I should probably stop trying and go back to using adverbs as per usual.

And what a joy it is, to write complexly! To speak quickly! and use adjectives! and intricate multisyllabic words for things! English is so beautiful and so underrated!

You see, I've spent the past couple of days hanging out with the rogue group of Austrians. After we had dinner that first night, they apparently liked having a fourth person in their group, and asked if I wanted to accompany them on a bike tour of the city on Tuesday? I did -- I love bikes-- and we spent the day weaving through traffic and waving at pedestrians and ringing our horns and taking our bike seats with us while we were inside shops to prevent them from being stolen. It was gorgeous.

Long story short, I have been hanging out with them for roughly 72 hours. It's been great to have people who don't know the city either, and it's a great way to improve my German, if not my Spanish (the Austrians, in general, just sort of shout things at the waitstaff confusedly, and the waitstaff kindly accomodate them in English).

Last night, though, was the kicker. Philip and Steve had tickets for a Barcelona football game, so Elise and I walked around downtown while they shouted things in the stadium excitedly, dressed in blue-and-red scarves and jerseys. When we met up, we all wanted food...

We wound up at a Japanese sushi restaurant. We were, after the Spaniard sitting alone in the corner left, the only people in the place. And it was A BUFFET. A sushi buffet. For 12.95. With dessert. And sake. I was practically shaking in delight.

The staff were tiny and adorable, as a rule. They were also plainly actually from Japan, and only kind of spoke Spanish. The man in the corner spoke English fairly well, which was useful when the waitstaff asked him to help interpret our bill for us -- he explained it to me in English, and I translated into German. Then we proceeded to eat Japanese food in Spain.

I don't know where I am anymore.

The 20-Year-Old Also Rises

It went off without a hitch. We found the gate to their flight, we wept slightly, then I turned the other way. I bought two magazines. I went to a different gate. I caught my plane. I met the shuttle bus afterwards, and then I was in Barcelona.

At the bus station, a man told me that I did not under any circumstances want to have my bag ripped off. ¨Senorita, I could talk to you right here...¨ he said, staring into my eyes and smiling, his white teeth in his tanned face, "and someone come along and fsst, take it, just like that. Wallet, passport, everything."

I nodded and smiled nervously. Still, when I left the bus station, it was all there. I hailed a taxi. The man was a driver who was plainly talkative, and tried his best to make conversation. I could respond only with "I will be here cinco days."

"By yourself?" he said, stroking his chin.

"Si," I said. I had reached the limits of my Spanish, and he his English, so the conversation stopped right there.

I made it to my hostel safely. I paid him nine -- "well actually it is eleven" --- euro and was cautioned by the front desk to lock all my belongings in the safe. I did so. I made my bed and I took a nap. The room was dark, and humid. My bed was a lower bunk in the far corner. There was not enough room to sit up on it. I was alone for now. I slept soundly.

When I woke, I took fifty euro and tucked it safely into my purse. I walked out the front door of the hostel, uncertain as to where I should go. The storefronts were dark although it was only mid-afternoon. The bars were all that was open. The streets were dirty, and large groups of men continued to pass me. They all stared me down until I looked away, or down at my map.

Then a group of people talking passed me. I could pick out the sounds of German. They were two brown-eyed boys and one blond girl. They had a map also. Inspired by this, I shouted after them, "Hallo!" and walked on.

Then I heard from behind me: "Hallo!"

The short one was striding towards me, map in hand. In German, he said, "Do you know where the grocery store is?"

I had seen one across from my youth hostel, and I told him so. I was however unable to give him directions, and especially not in German, so I walked him and his friends there.

"Your German is very good," the tall one said. He stared into my eyes. "Do you live here?"

"No, I am visiting," I said, striding towards the corner and looking carefully for cars. I had one hand on my purse. "I come from Minnesota -- America. I study in Munich next week."

"Ah, Munich! We are from Salzburg!"

"Ah, Salzburg!" and then we were there, in front of the grocery store. We shook hands. "I am Philip. I am Stephen. ... Lisa."

"I am Jessie," I said. "Nice to meet you."

"Do you know a good place to go for dinner?" the short one said. "Would you like to meet later?"

I hesitated. I looked at them. There were three of them. One was a girl. Also, they were very attractive. "Yes, I would like that. I do not know anyone here."

"Well then, we will meet you at -- eight o clock? In front of the Apollo?" said the short one. "The theater?"

We met there then. We did not know a good place to eat, so we had sour wine and nuts in the bar while the concierge helped other people get into their hotel. When he was finished, he recommended a place, and gave us its card, all the while smiling. His teeth were very white and his skin was very brown. He was quite lovely. We debated his sexuality later, over the fish, which the waitress served to us with a bottle of fine wine. It flaked off onto one's fork, and was served with tomatoes and eggplant. Then we went to the Germans' hotel room and drank more wine, and some beer with lemon, but since there were four of us we did not get drunk, simply silly, and we talked for three hours. It was all very wholesome.

When we decided to part, one of them walked me to my hostel. ¨Very nice to meet you, Jessie." He took my hand, then moved in for a side-kiss far too near my lips, so I kissed him briefly and wholesomely. Then we made Abschied, and I unlocked the door and walked into my hotel. I felt very grown-up.

I'm sorry, it's been a week. For all you know, blog, I might be dead, trampled by crowds of green-dressed revelers or thrown off a cliff by my father as we hiked by the sea. But no, I'm not dead, it's just that I haven't written recently because I've actually been doing things instead of spending my time in Europe trolling Facebook spying on people's lives! And it's wonderful!

Also, the guest house my family rented for the week turned out to not have Internet. So it's probably mostly that.

I was a little coy about it in my last post, but yes: the Hennens descended on Dublin last Saturday night, dazed and confused by the intricacies of the Irish freeway system. I caught the Aircoach to the airport (it was driven by a bunch of German kids with weird haircuts whose accents I couldn't understand and whose speech made no sense to me: since I'm going to Munich to LIVE in a week, I'm hoping it's just that they were Dutch, not that I can no longer understand a solitary German person who isn't Edith Borchardt) -- since the bus spent its time going down narrow alleyways clogged by too many cars to pick up people with giant suitcases, I was five minutes too late to meet my family dramatically as they walked out of the plane, and instead ran into the terminal, searched for their flight time, hoping it was delayed so my mother wouldn't worry that I hadn't turned up on time...

Then someone tapped me on the shoulder. "Hi," said Joe, looking far too tall, dressed entirely in black.

I didn't know what to do, so I punched him affectionately in the arm. "Little bro! How does it go!"

"Man, flying is hard. I got patted down by security at least two times."

"Well, you do look like a jihadi." He does, especially since he shaved his head.

My parents were at the rental car desk, signing things, and so it was awkward, I wasn't sure if I should run up behind them and hug them or wait or what -- plus it for whatever reason didn't seem entirely weird to see them there, gray and harried and lovely. Luckily my mother turned around, and so the problem was solved.

Ahh, blog terminal running out of time!

One Art

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster,

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three beloved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

-- Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) a disaster.

-Elizabeth Bishop

If nothing else, in this, the first half of my trip (well nearly), I've become a good loser.

To recap: it's been a busy three months. Standing in a crowd at Minneapolis-St.Paul International Airport, I said goodbye to my parents. I was amazed at how little I cried. The confusion of where do I stand/where is my group/do I still have my passport? had kind of taken hold of me, numbed me, as well as the impossibility of leaving -- complicating matters, Lisa had, at that point, not seen me for three weeks, and was busily and lovingly hugging my left arm as I awkwardly patted my father's.

"You'll be fine," Mom said, and "Sei gut, Tochter," Dad said, and I said "mmhmm", and we teared up briefly but not histrionically and then they left.

Then suddenly we were in Chicago, holding heavy, heavy bags, and then the group from the tiny Minnesotan college was sailing over the ocean, waking up to the stewardess asking us if we would like red wine with our dinners and enjoying in that instant this thrilling sort of flash of not being in Kansas anymore. And then we were in Athens, which was definitely not Kansas, or Minnesota, or Germany, and just as I'd learned to read a map we were on a tiny plane out of there.

And then Ikaria, where Lisa and I spent our days walking around Agios-Kirikos, suddenly two very-foreign foreigners wandering the streets, marveling at the cliffs and letting the waves wash over our feet. We were the two girls outside the fish shop petting the stray cats and occasionally whispering harshly to each other, desperate to not make a scene in front of the Greeks.

And then -- too soon -- we got in the plane, said goodbye to the cliffs and the waves and the cats and the goats -- then we were in the Athenian airport, and I was saying goodbye again, which this time meant letting them go, letting the quirks of the sixteen people I'd been with for the past three weeks stop mattering and grow into moot points as they walked through the checkpoint towards their gate.

And Lisa was hugging me again, zombie-like and soft in a pre-dawn haze; "We'll miss you, we love you, but of course you know that," said Argie, and then I had to do it, had to walk right while they walked left, and then there was no we anymore. I cried bitterly in the bathroom.

I arrived in London, said goodbye. I arrived in Bray, said hello, found myself in a house full of individuals again -- some were familiar campus faces, but some were from far away, whose names I (at this point exhausted with names) had trouble remembering even a week later. I was placed in one school, learned some names, was taken out, was placed in another school, learned more names (first and last, and some utterly unfamiliar to me -- Aoife, Dan-Ben, Venji?), had blurry evenings, laughed a lot, argued bitterly, wrote terrible poems, baked a pie, crafted some essays in a flurry, cooked a farewell dinner, then left again.

Having called the taxi, I flung my backpack on my shoulder, woke her up. "Make sure it's okay," my roommate Olivia said blurrily in the (again) far-too-morning-light-ness of my leaving --- "make sure they're nice, and call me," and then she fell asleep again.

They were nice, though. I was picked up from a bus station by a woman in a blue van and driven to an uncertain future, and I've gotten lucky. The Collinses are not axe murderers. They are kind people. They, like the school, wish I could stay later (I think), and are looking forward to seeing me again.

Because the thing about losing is (I hope) that the things we lose come back to us.

On Saturday my parents and my brother will fly in, exhausted, excited. We will visit the school -- we will meet the children, and I will remember their names, because after a month they're stuck in my head forever -- then later maybe we will come here, to Cork, and they will meet this family, and pet these goats, and laugh at these children.

And then they will leave, and although it will be hard to see them go, I will be off to Barcelona for a week, and then to Germany, and I will find more things, and I will lose them, and then after it all I will be back, and failing a giant bump on the head, everything I've found on this trip will be in there still.

Cause part of you pours out of me

In these lines from time to time
Oh, you're in my blood like holy wine
You taste so bitter and so sweet
Oh I could drink a case of you, darling
Still, I'd be on my feet.

-Joni Mitchell

Terrible Things I Have Said to Children, Take 2

Sophie, age four, has had a sore throat all day. Not only that, her nose is running, her tonsils are huge, and she has a fever. Understandably, at dinner, she is a little whiny, entirely unable to eat her sausages "because it huwts my fwoat when I swawwow", nor to drink her milk because "it's too cowd, Daddy".

It may have been a little grating, but it doesn't excuse my response.

Sophie: Mommy, will I go to school tomorrow?

Me, sitting across from her, cheerfully: Not if you die in the night!

....

We'll see what morning brings.

My Life as TV

I'm not sure why, but recently I've been all about the 90s.

Last night, a trailer pulled up to the Collinses, and a rather large goat was dragged blinking out of it and shoved into their chicken coop by her horns. When released in the morning, it was revealed that said goat has white fur, peaceful marble-like eyes, longish hooves, and a predilection for barging past me into the kitchen. Her voice is constant and omnipresent -- she talks in her goaty voice when the pigs get too close to her, when a hunk of ivy is too far away for her little teeth to reach, and often for no reason at all.

Names for this animal vary. The predominant nomenclature is "Noreen", which I like, since she is very personable and it is after all a human name. Maybe too human; Noreen is also the name of fourteen-year-old-Nadia's friend -- excuse me, ex-friend -- who also likes to bleat. "If Noreen finds out that we named a GOAT after her, she'll be telling it all over town, you know she will," says Nadia ominously. We asked Sophie, the four-year-old who had named her, to think of a different name. She came up with "Daffodil", which has less of a negative connotation, but is sort of boring.

Since there's been such a bother about it, I'm in favor of scrapping both names and putting something more allusive in their stead. Think it over: not only is a female goat called a nanny, but the goat's excessive bleating sounds rather like a certain Ms. Drescher's, and so I'd like to call her either "The Nanny" or "Fran". I'm aware that I have a friend named Fran, but we're cool, and I think she would view it as an honor rather than a slur.

My suggestion has been greeted not with serious consideration, but with laughs. It's okay, though -- my last animal-naming was a great success.

Until recently, two ducks shared an increasingly-cramped cage in the laundry room, talking cliqueishly to each other whenever I came in with their food. They're skinny white animals who are too scared to eat. One is indistinguishable from the other; while they were cute when they were babies, now, nobody's quite sure why they're around. I felt that it was only fitting to, upon their release into the yard, begin calling them Mary-Kate and Ashley.

Additionally, today, I burned branches with a man whose name was James.

"Jessie and James really did a lot," said Chelsea to her husband as he came in the door today. Then she turned to me, and winked.

"....Did you really just make a Pokemon allusion?" I said. She cackled.

She may think of me as half of a crime-creating duo with awesome hair. I, however, beg to differ. The family I'm working with is large, and blended -- Chelsea's two teenage children from prior relationships are combined with her two Mel-made kids to make one very full house, especially if you include the goat. Since I haven't got much in the way of clothes, I'm rather zany-looking a lot of the time. I also occasionally wear scrunchies (even if they call them bobbles here) and look confused.

If this were Full House, I'd be Kimmy Gibbler.

"Gee, Mr. C, where'd the dead goose in the mud room go?"

Cillion

This is one of the kids in the house I'm WWOOFing in.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZW-ts0mj158

Funny video, right? Funny enough to have seventeen thousand views?... Apparently.

Cillion is 10, I think. The video was made a few years ago, but he still looks like that -- he's little, and weedy, and looks intense, and smiles a lot. At dinner last night, we were discussing his youtube video, and the fact that the web site offered him a cut of the advertising funds because of the amount of hits he's gotten.

"I think it's only funny because you fall off the chair midway through," I said.

"I did it on purpose," he insisted.

"Riiight, Cill," his sister, who was working the camera, said, rolling her eyes. "You totally didn't."

"I did!" he insisted.

"You realize it's way less funny if you fell on purpose, you know," Nadia said primly.

I don't believe him because toppling cheerfully off a rolling chair is exactly the sort of thing he would do. This kid constantly overestimates his own physical capabilities -- whether rolling a go-cart onto its side while going thirty miles an hour down the hill in the churchyard or inhaling the noxious chemicals he's combining for his science experiment, Cillion pushes the limits.

He lives way out in the country, so he doesn't have many friends close to home -- he's too old to babysit, but too young to drive. As a result, he's left to his own devices a lot of the time. This has resulted in him watching a lot of Mythbusters on the Discovery channel, then attempting to apply the principles of the show to everyday life, and disregarding common sense in the process.

Today, we were stoking a bonfire I'd made from spare brush and an old armchair; I was attempting to nurse the flames into eating a twenty-foot stack of brambles. I was sweating, snapping twigs, throwing gasoline-soaked children's socks onto the fire. Cillion was standing on a discarded footstool, wearing a 'highly flammable' (as he told me) jacket, poking it with a stick and sporadically saying, "Hey! Watch this!"

"I wonder what happens when you throw ice in it," he said gleefully, trotting over to some trash in the corner of the yard.

"Hm, gee," I said idly as I dragged a mile-long half of a tree onto the weak flames. "I wonder."

He stopped. "Actually, MythBusters did an episode on the act of putting ice in a very hot fire, and it turns out it explodes." With that, he threw the sheet of ice he'd picked out of the bucket into the coals, and stood closely by watching it. "You might want to get out of the way, just in case. I'll stay here."

I admired his protective ten-year-old manliness, but really wished it would extend to throwing giant branches on the fire instead of just trying to make it as dangerous as possible. If he had, perhaps our fire would have exploded that ice instead of merely melting it, causing Cillion to wilt in a disappointed manner, his stick drooping.