Bastille Day was disappointing; I have to stop comparing everything to the previous year or event. What was it? Not only was there no espirit de corps, but no one cared about French Independence Day. I pinned several tri-color ribbons on the few, remaining loyalists (Thomas Barker's on his crotch and Julio's on his ass, areas they have found much action in), but it all seemed so forced.

This was another unfortunate moment. Thomas was comparing his stomach to Ditmar's saying, "My stomach is no where near as defined as yours." To which I replied, "Give it time; your stomach is 20 years younger than that one". I must need sensitivity classes because Ditmar didn't take it well and lunged for my throat screaming, "Dat Vill be the LAST photo you take".

It was not a "feel good" start to the first weekend without The Outside Bar and I have locked myself up in my petit maison all day, taking to my bed, pecking at food, sometimes pulling back the lace curtains and wondering if the world as we knew it would ever return. Chekov's line from Three Sisters, "What will become of us?" rang through my mind.

Jeremy writes that he has found a Palace in Bogata and makes sure he arrives early to get his favorite seat. We all wish we were there with him.