Dining Alone in the Hebrides

A single candle. A single glass. A single wicker chair with two worn cushions, one for below, one for behind.

“Yes, I'll have a glass of wine. The Sancerre, please. Thanks.”

She sits looking out at the wee bay that separates Iona from Mull. Between them, in the gathering dusk is the Island of Women, a small, barren rock not much larger than a city block.

She wonders if all the single ladies are plopped here on the sun porch while all the partnered people and single men are gathered together in the dinning room behind her. Twisting in her chair, she peeks through the glass window behind to see folks in the full swing of their meals.

Is this sun porch really her own Island of Women? Well, Island of Woman, singular, to be exact. When Columba claimed Iona for the church he banished all the pagan witches to the rock across the bay. Perhaps his descendants still harbor a tiny distrust of independent women.

“Yes, I’ll start with Foie Gras.”

She sounded sure of herself, though inside she was a little conflicted. Did she really want the pate? She loves pate, but Foie Gras is such a delicacy and it comes with the price of the room, so has decided to be decadent. Even as the nice young man walks away she still feels torn.

Maybe her exile from the other travelers is her own doing. Didn’t she request that afternoon to be seated on the porch to enjoy her afternoon tea? The porch, where she can watch the people go by, the rain fall, as it always seems to be falling, on the Scottish sea and cliffs and granites of pink and green. Perhaps the inn keeper, respecting her solitude made it known to all the staff that she would be taking all her meals at that little table, with the single wicker chair, it’s partner pulled aside and secured against the wall lest anyone mistake her for a woman who was waiting for someone to join her.

The foie Gras arrives.

“Thank you this looks delicious. I’d love to have the chicken with rosemary next. That comes with asparagus? Great!”

The appetizer resembles a portrait out of Gourmet magazine. She thinks. She doesn’t really read gourmet magazine. But this little gelatinous rectangle of duck innards and fat sits somewhat tantalizingly on the plate, like a centerfold on a luscious bed of croutons and watercress. That first bite is rich and earthy and she closes her eyes to appreciate what a fine piece of work is this little concoction. It’s good, very good. Yet, she wishes she had just ordered the pate. This thought makes her smile. Why can’t she remember that although she appreciates foie gras, it is too heavy to eat much of, too challenging to her palate to really enjoy.

She sips her wine. Here she made a wise choice. The buttery complexity of this Sancerre delights her. Why are Sancerre’s so hard to find in the states, she wonders. It is such a magical little grape that never fails to tickle her palate.

The sun, which made it’s first appearance of the day late in the afternoon, is begrudgingly making its way to the other side of the world, somewhere behind her. As it sends it’s dazzling rays eastward it catches the rain and does that thing rain and sun do so well together, and a rainbow magically appears over the shimmering bay. She snaps pictures and turns to the empty porch, then looking through the glass partitions that separate her from the other guests. She is hoping someone else can see this gift that the heavens are delivering. But no one inside seems interested in what is happening outside. She turns back to the to the rainbow, to the water, to the boats that bob up and down as if they are trying to capture a bit of red, orange, yellow, green, blue and purple light before they are swallowed by the darkness of night. She alone will have to be their witness.



“There is rainbow out there, see just there. There were two of them just a few moments ago. Spectacular. Oh, yes, I’m done, thank you. It was wonderful but a little too rich for me.”

Perhaps the natives are too used to rainbows to find them noteworthy, she speculates when her plate has been cleared and she is once again alone.

The chicken arrives. It smells of rosemary and pepper, of warmth and comfort. Where the foie gras was exotic and alien, the chicken is inviting and familiar. The asparagus is crisp and buttery. She takes a bite of each, both are moist and exactly what she expected, only tastier as if this Scottish rosemary and pepper and butter and sea salt are really determined to make a name for themselves.

She settles into her chair, relaxing into the heart of her meal. The rainbow has faded away and a silver gray twilight is fast engulfing the view. In the distance, beyond the Island of Women, are the crazy cliffs of Mull. What are they called, she wonders. The land just there looks as if some giant picked up the island, turned it up on it’s end and made an accordion fold in the landscape then laid the island back down. The resulting effect, especially at dusk, makes it appear as if some ogre deep in the cliff has just slightly opened his blinds and is peeking out to watch the sunset.



She smiles across the water to the ogre, knowing his secret, solitary pleasure.

“Goodness, yes, it was truly delicious. I’d love another glass of wine, and maybe the pudding. That’s cake, right? I mean, it’s fully cooked. I mean, in the states we call pudding “cake”, so I just want to make sure you mean cake. I’m allergic to most puddings, like tapioca. It’s the milk, you see. Great, I’ll have the pudding.”

She loves those little discoveries of cultural differences. After three months of traveling, her mind is full of them. Each country and city seems to have it’s own way of doing things. Crossing the street in Rome is a leap of faith, best to find a nun to walk behind; Romans seem disinclined to run over a nun. She feels sure Londoners will run over anybody who gets in their way, regardless of their moral standing in the community. Parisians kiss on sidewalks seductively, Italians kiss hungrily. The Brits don’t seem to kiss. In Paris the men smile in appreciation. In Italy, the men chase and pester, while the women keep their distance. In Ireland, the gift of the gab is a true stereotype and conversation is ripe for the picking, In Wales and Cornwall and Edinburgh, and here, in the Hebrides, her final stop, she has been pretty much left to herself.

The pudding arrives. And the second glass of wine. Both feel like extravagant little afterthoughts. Like down pillows on a featherbed. Dense and chocolaty, the pudding melts as she chews. This isn’t the soft billowing sinful pleasure of a mousse in Paris. She doesn’t close her eyes to register its effect deep down in the sensuous depths of her belly, as she did when she dared that milky treat two months ago. Instead, this cake settles in closer to her heart.

Tonight, she decides, she will visit the chapel with the swallow chicks and the abbey cat. She will reflect on this journey that has unexpectedly brought her to this little sacred isle. She yearns for clarity, for revelation, for meaning. Why did she choose to travel when the economy is spiraling downward, why is she so alone, what will she do when she goes home, how will she make money, what is the purpose of her little beautiful life?

Tomorrow she will get up and make the pilgrimage to Columba’s bay, just as pilgrims have done for thousands of years. Perhaps it will be raining. Perhaps she will find the answers to her questions. Perhaps it will just be another step toward the unknown and unknowable future.

A couple in their early sixties enters the sun porch which now awaits the arrival of the full moon. They sit together on the love seat. They carry a collective sense of peace and compatibility. They nod in her direction, but they do not speak.

She is aware that somehow, in this short evening, she appears to have adopted a proprietary claim on this little window on the world. She’s become at home here. Though she welcomes visitors, the couple seems reluctant to shatter her solitude.

Closing her eyes and breathing deep, she finishes the last of her wine. Even though she predicts that she will be eating in this same spot tomorrow, she wants to soak in the feel of her little wicker throne on her little island of woman.

She opens her eyes and gathering her camera and the journal that has lain unopened on the table all evening, she stands to leave.

“ Isn’t this a lovely little spot? I’m just on my way out for an evening stroll.”

When Heaven Feels Like Hell

Someone asked me recently what it means to be a Pagan. I don't really know the answer to that question objectively. But personally, it means to revere all of nature, to find God in each and every tree, rock, person, work of art, building, everything. There are certain places, people, things, however, that glow more acutely, that bring me closer to the sense of Heaven and the divine in the everyday world.

Any place with a painting by Van Gogh is my idea of Heaven.

So it was with great anticipation that I went today to MOMA to see the Vincent Van Gogh exhibit. I was, at one o'clock, in a very good mood. I had slept in, my stomach was feeling better after a bit of bug, and my day was ripe for a little liaison with my favorite painter. On the way up to the museum I had crossed police barricades, heard the sound of angry protests getting under way as the UN began it's Fall session a few blocks away, but I'd also been granted a "bless you" by a passing stranger when I sneezed on my way across the street, and those small kindnesses count a lot in a big city.

When I arrived at MOMA I waited in a short line and was told by the very grumpy young man at the ticket counter that I could not get into the Van Gogh exhibit for another 3 hours.

I asked if I could buy a ticket for Wednesday.

No advance tickets.

I wondered if I should come back another time anyway and inquired whether he thought the lines would die down after a few days.

He promptly informed that, "it was going to be like this for the rest of my life." I said, "Boy, you're having a rough day aren't you?" (When a customer service person is snarky with me I employ this tactic of being sympathetic with their plight, and they usually brighten up....not this guy.) "I've been yelled at, harassed, complained to...this was a very bad idea!"

I can only surmise that he meant Van Gogh was a bad idea. I took my ticket and wished him the best possible day he could have, under the circumstances.

I then went into the museum. I ate some lunch. I went up to look at the painting galleries. Much to my delight, the general collection at MOMA holds some of my favorite works by Monet, Matisse, Kandinsky, Klimt, Joseph Cornell, Edward Hopper. I generally avoid the modern museums because I'm not one to go in for Pop Art or abstract stuff. So it was with surprise and glee that I began to explore. Very soon, though, my mood began to shift. All around me patrons were taking digital photos of the paintings, some used their flashes, which is strictly a no-no. Flash or no, these picture takers were not actually stopping to look at the paintings with their own eyes.

I first noticed this behavior in Paris the last time I visited Le Musee D'Orsay. That day I left sobbing after only spending a relative few minutes trying to glimpse my friends Van Gogh, Redon, Klimt, all the other beauties through hordes of people with their digital cameras dangling within inches of the center of paintings, cameras blocking anyone else from actually taking in the whole canvass.

"Buy the postcard, people!!!"

That's what I want to yell...."BUY THE FUCKING POSTCARD!!!!" And take the time, here, now, while you have it to actually look at the painting through your eyes, look at it with your heart and soul and find out if that picture speaks to you, what might it be saying. Don't just rack up the famous-painting notches on your belt. Van Gogh's Starry Night-Check....Monet's Water Lilies-check.check check check...

I almost had a nervous breakdown today in front of an Edward Hopper piece. When I lived in Chicago I used to go almost weekly to the Art Institute to look at Hopper's Nighthawks.



This was in the day when that gem of a canvass had it's own wall and a bench right in front and I would sit there for an hour and just dive into the painting. My friend Joe and I did a movement piece based on it once...so I really did get to bring it to life....



Here is the painting from today....very moody, the paint looking as if it has barely dried. In person, it is so luminous. Well this man sidles up next to me and takes a flash photo. At this point I have held my tongue at least 100 times, so I can't take it any more and I say, "You know you aren't supposed to take flash photos...it harms the paint." He say, "yeah, yeah, yeah..." and takes another photo. Fucker! It was all I could do not to tackle him and smash his camera against the wall....

By the time 4 o'clock rolled around and I was allowed into the Van Gogh exhibit I was shaking. I kept telling myself to take a deep breath and just enjoy. I always feel like Vincent and I are having some kind of affair...his paintings are so alive, so insistent. I have this visceral feeling that he is reaching out into me and I into him. I imagine he is having an affair with countless others as well, so I try to be respectful of the other museum goers.

Fortunately they do not allow cameras at all into the special exhibits. So I was able to get a little one on one time with some of the lesser paintings. But when it came to the masterpieces, we all had to share. For the most part everyone was very civilized about it. Until we all turned a corner and there was Starry Night. It was here that some old guy decided he deserved a better spot than me and started pushing me out of the way...subtly...but deliberately....until I was stuck squarely behind another man with a large head who was right in front of the center of the painting.

Let me make it clear, I was not in a great spot to begin with. I was a row of people away from the wall. I was off to the side, but I had a clear shot between the heads of people in front of me. And I was not blocking anyone else.

Well, I was flabbergasted.

As I tried not to scream out into the void (which Vincent probably would have applauded, by the way) the man in front of me vacated his spot. Then, as the bully who'd maneuvered me out of the way started to trade in his already great spot for the one in front of me, I boldly stepped forward, blocked his way and took center stage in the light of this painting.



I was not proud of myself. But I had a few moments with the canvass of my dreams....and I didn't end up in jail for decking an old guy with an out-dated sense of entitlement.

I left MOMA sad. My day in Heaven had turned into it's own little Hell.

I walked out into the streets of Mid-Town Manhattan where police men with assault riffles stood ready to protect the diplomats of the world, where bankers at Morgan Stanley, Lehmann Brothers and all the rest struggle with the fall of the American economic system, and I felt ashamed. I'd been in the presence of beauty today and I'd gotten a little more ugly.

I don't have an epiphany about all this to share with you. Just the tale. Take whatever meaning you want from it.

Why I Heart the 23rd St. Subway Station

I'm a big fan...in general...of a subway station, be it in New York, Chicago, Paris, even London...I probably would have liked the stations in Rome, had I decided to take the train instead of stubbornly walking all over the place, mostly in circles....

I liken my love of subway stations to a similar affinity I have for farmer's markets or street fairs. There is a sense of community, of life being lived unselfconsciously when people are hustling and bustling from one train to another, or out buying their weekly groceries. Granted, down in the bowels of some big city it doesn't often smell as clean and delicious as your neighborhood farmer's market, but there is usually a musician serenading commuters, just as there might be one busking out on the street during a fair....and I'm a sucker for good music found in unexpected places....

Over the years I've developed fondnesses for particular subways stops.

I've got a few favorite Metro stops in Paris, one I wrote about at length because my family went there often. If you want to read that post you can go here...I love that station not for what is inside, but what is outside: a view of the Eiffel Tower unlike any other. There is another station whose interior makes me smile...that one is tiled all over it's walls and arched ceiling with bright orange tiles...burnt orange everywhere you look. Then there is the simple fact that Paris metro stations just smell better than ones in other cities do, don't ask me why, cuz I haven't a clue.

I ran into a friend from college once at a Chicago train stop about 15 years ago. I was going into the "L" on Armitage, and he was coming out. He said, "Morgan, oh my God, I just had the best dream about you. I'm in a rush, so I'll tell you about it later." When I finally got in touch with him again through facebook a few months ago, he actually remembered running into me all those years ago, remembered telling me he'd had a dream, but he couldn't remember what it was. That meeting and that station are clearly imprinted on my brain, as if I'd just run into my friend yesterday.

Subway stations are good for that kind of thing: chance encounters. Metro platforms hold opportunities to unexpectedly share a moment with a long lost friend....or to speak to a handsome stranger who caught your eye.....But most of us choose to rush on to the next destination...completely unaware that this might be the last time we ever see a certain someone or travel to that spot. Commuters on subways, it seems to me, are daily choosing whether to stop and speak to the beautiful stranger or to hurry on their pre-determined course, leaving them fantasizing for years to come about that mysterious person, with the eyes, and the smile and the sweet way he said, "Bon Vacance."

Subways take you all over a city, rumbling beneath landmarks, palaces, and people you long to meet. Often we use them to get from one spot we already know to another spot we know, and we never investigate the landscape in between.

We rumble through stations that sometimes have enticing or exotic names. For instance, my brother once lived in Queens...I don't remember which stop we got off to visit him, but I do know that it was one stop past "Bliss." I rather thought he'd missed the mark there...always getting off one stop PAST bliss. But I was just a kid then, what did I know.

Other stations, most in New York, as far as I can tell, have simple numbers attached to "street" or "avenue". Now when I visit my brother I get off at 96th Street. It is important, I have learned, to specify that this is 96th Street on the 1,2, or 3 line. There is nothing special about this stop, except that my family lives 4 blocks away which, I guess, is really special enough.

My new all time favorite subway stop is also a simple "Street", 23rd Street. This is on the N, R, and W line. Until this afternoon, I had never actually gotten off the train at 23rd Street. I'd breezed through it several times on the Q train. But that is all I'd needed to see to fall in love...the magic, for me, is actually in the breeze by.

You see this station, like many others in New York, has been newly re-tiled and mosaic-ed. The walls are mostly a bright white tile, very clean, very stark. But all along the walls at random heights are mosaics of various hats from days gone by which look as if they have all blown out of a hat shop and are flying down the underground street. This is fairly whimsical to begin with, but then when you add commuters standing and sitting along the walls, all unaware that there are magical hats above their heads....well, to those of us in the passing train who bother to look out the windows, we are treated to the vision of various modern day people wearing crazy hats, or people standing around non-chalantly unaware that they are in a wind-storm and their fancy chapeaus have just blown off their heads. It is utterly delightful! Ordinary folk are transformed into characters out of some surreal Fellini-esque street scene.

I stopped at 23rd street today to try and get a picture of the effect. I wasn't very successful, but here are a few feeble glimpses.










I recently asked people on facebook to guess why the 23rd St. Station might be my favorite. They told me all sorts of wonderful things about the landscape above the tracks. The stairs out of that station take a person to the Chelsea Hotel where Mark Twain, among others, lived, the Flat Iron building is nearby, apparently Bob Dylan wrote songs in the immediate vicinity and there's even a song called "23rd St. Lullaby" written by Patti Scialfa. My friend Jeff also informed me that the hats flying on the walls are representations of those worn by actual people and, sure enough, that is true. Mark Twain's hat is there, as is Houdini's, I can't remember who else. I suspect all the people whose hats grace the walls of the 23rd Street station might have lived in the neighborhood or even at the Chelsea Hotel, but that's just my guess. Someday I am gonna get off at 23rd St. and walk up the steps and check out the neighborhood. I promise.

In the meantime, I can't shake the wonder I have about the artist who put those hats up on the walls and knew that his models would be there all day everyday to make the hats come alive. I am so grateful to her for granting me that unexpected surprise, those moments of delight, in the middle of an ordinary commute.

There's another thing too. I've always had a wee bit of prejudice against rushing. I am a firm believer in the health benefits of stopping to smell the flowers. When I like the music in the subway I walk slowly to the platform, I linger, sometimes I even sway my hips and dance a bit. I tend to want to lounge in a moment, especially if it is heavy with connection and feeling and beauty. But I guess sometimes you don't have to stop or even slow down to discover the miraculous in the moment, sometimes it's better to breeze by...to let the eyes linger...and then let the beautiful stranger go....maybe that one moment is as good as it gets....that fleeting jolt of intimacy is all the gift there is...or all the gift you both need....the 23rd St. Station is a living example of loving something and letting it go....and I'm gonna hold onto that lesson and carry it with me for a long time to come.

Staying Present

Okay. I know. I promised you stories from my big European Adventure. And then I came to New York to do a show and life kept happening to me.

I went the other day to Central Park to listen to The Swell Season with my friends Kevin and Jenn, and Jenn told me I had to keep writing. She said she wanted to keep reading my blog. Which was sure nice of her.

So I realized that I'd put myself into a bit of a bind. It seems, thankfully, that life and all it's great little miracles continue to happen back here at home. So I am processing today and thinking that I can only write about yesterday, which is rather ridiculous.

So, I am just going to write and I am pretty sure that as I tell you about the journey as it continues, those delicious tales I promised you from before will find their way into the blog as well.

Thanks...to Jenn and all of you who have asked for more. It's nice to have friends to write for.

Mostly, though, it's nice to have friends.

What's on the Menu?

It has been more than a few weeks since I have written something here.

You might have noticed that already.

This summer has been a wee bit strange and mercurial. There's been a whole lot of wonderful and a fairly steady stream of hiccups in the flow of my summer frivolity. Things like broken water heaters, overflowing toilets, lice, identity theft, disappearing gardeners who took my check but left the garden a mess, my computer almost crashing under the weight of all my travel pictures, and a flirty mcflirterman who didn't really mean it...or he did....but then he didn't.

Those are, obviously, the hiccups.

On the other end of the thermometer are wonderful weekends out of town, connecting with long lost friends, dancing, a heck of a lot of sunshine, new family in town, visitors from out of town, spontaneous healings, and the joy of telling stories from my trip....which has kept me from writing about my journey.

It has taken me all this while to sort through my photos. Isn't that a strange part of travel? Reviewing the pictures, looking at it all again from the safety of your couch, culling out the snapshots that you hope will evoke the feel, smell, taste of a place long after you've returned home and traveled through the time and space of your "regularly" scheduled life?

And now I have a week before I jump into the mayhem of what I think will be six months of steady acting work which includes three weeks of performing in New York City and my first ever one-woman show (before you get the wrong idea--those are two separate projects). So I feel called to write...to try and send some of the stories that I have been promising you out into the cyber-world before I sink into the theatre for a while.

Where to start?

There are so many little stories. Little tapas sized tales. I could tell you a handful of those.

Then there are some real juicy, rib-eye steak kind of stories. Maybe I should tempt you with one of those, give you something really satisfying that keeps you coming back for more. Then if it takes me a while to write again, you won't mind because you'd still be full from the story you read a week ago.

Then there is the ONE, the piece de resistance, the story that, dare I say it, really does feel like it encompases the whole enchilada. But I don't think I'll go there yet...not sure I can in this format, actually. In fact, that is what much of my summer has been about, feeling out how to tell THAT story, the one I won't tell you yet. The one that has changed my life. Because that story really needs perspective, back-story, history.

So, I guess that answers the question really. I'll start with the appetizers, work my way up to the main course. Probably sprinkle in a bit of historical perspective, and then, when the time is right, maybe I'll spring the prize on you.

Seriously, I know that's a darn lot of lead up. But there is no other way. You and the story, deserve it.

Where Am I?

I have been back in Seattle for 10 days or so. That's a day for every week I was gone, come to think of it. They say that when you end a relationship it takes something like one month for every year that you were together to recover from the break up. After 10 days home, I feel like I am finally recovering from the end of my "world tour".

My jet lag hung on for over a week. Concentration only now seems to be speaking to me again. And last night was the first time I did not wake up and wonder where I was.

It is strange. I never woke up on the road and wondered where I was. Not once. Despite the regular change of local. But here, in my house, the bed that I have slept in for 5 years has felt totally alien, exquisitely comfortable, but alien. It is as if my body came home on the 29th of June, but my soul is only just now arriving.

I am excited to get down to the business of telling you stories, sharing photos. I just have to shuffle through the logistics of returning to a house and job that I have left behind for three months. I had to get my hot water heater fixed almost as soon as I came off the plane. My computer decided it didn't want all the photos from my trip and then decided that it really wanted 3 different copies of all those pictures....that's a lot of memory...so now I have to have my computer repaired, before I lose all my pictures. I have to turn my teaching brain back on & figure out how to teach physical comedy to 5 middle school kids. I have to stop driving over the curb when I turn corners. The dog needs to go to the vet and the yard needs to be unearthed from the morning glory that seems to have eaten everything in sight.

As mundane as all that sounds, I really am finding some comfort and even wonder in it all. It relates to a promise wrapped in a wish that I had while I was on Iona. As I was contemplating what my trip was about and what it is I want to manifest in my life from this point forward, well, That point forward technically, I looked over to see a couple walk down to the beach. Without thinking I said out loud to myself, "well, that's one thing. I am done being alone. I am finished being lonely." I thought I was talking about romance.

But as soon as I returned to Seattle, after a lovely week in New York with my brother and his family, to the lovely house that blesses me with it's shelter and warmth, and to my two fantastic house-mates, Cora and Alyssa, something had shifted. I realized how much love and family and support was jam packed into my life. As I have slowly started visiting friends and family the connective tissue is stronger, more solid. I feel no lack. I feel only blessings. I feel surrounded with love.

I have not felt lonely or alone for even a second since I left Iona.

So, where am I? It would seem that I am Home.

Re-Entry

Today is the day. The day I finally go home to Seattle, the house, the pets, the wonderful friends and roommates, bills, work, an overgrown garden, driving, my own bed.

I have been in New York City for the last five days, hanging out with family, in a city I know. So, it is like I have still been traveling, but not, home, but not HOME. It feels a little bit like I have been re-entering the atmosphere gradually, re-acclimatizing myself to the familiar, fighting and reveling in the pull of gravity, i.e. easy access to the internet and long non-international calling rates calls to friends.

So much happened on the journey of the last 10 or so weeks that I haven't been able to share with you yet, but I think I have conveyed the truly miraculous wonder and daily experience of having my heart opened more and more by the beauty and wisdom of this Earth and the people who live on it. This trip was everything I wanted it to be. It was expansive and expanding. And I go home tonight feeling as if the work that needed to be done, the work that called me to travel at this time and to those places was done.

It was easy work.

Re-entry to the everyday of "normal" life, that's the challenge. Keeping the heart and mind open and expansive amidst the people and places I THINK I know, is, perhaps, even greater work. And by "work" I mean, "privilege" and "joy", as well as, an endeavor to be diligent in pursuing. I don't expect this to be "hard" work, but I know that it requires presence and stillness and curiosity. It takes the courage to approach the daily existence I left behind with the same sense of adventure and joy as I approached the world on my European trip, and without preconceived notions of what my daily life is, who the players are. Every friend, aquaintance, co-worker I encounter at home deserves to be met with the same curiosity I afforded strangers on my trip. Each day, deserves the same wonder. It is my hope that I can stand in the kitchen of my house, or the classroom I will teach in and say with the same sense of awe that I held in my heart while standing in the coliseum in Rome, "I can't believe I am standing here. How amazing. How lucky!"