226. Conference room. "Oh Gazpacho-y, I need to hold your hand," she says. "Which one, left or right?" I want to know. "It does not matter," she assures me. As soon as we sit down and hold hands, my next year's boss walks past our seats. He looks at the joining hands, pretends not to see anything, continues towards his seat, then turns around to approach us. With a very, very low voice, he tells me, "I can't say it loudly in public... but this gives me a whole new perspective about Geluck's harem..."
227. Central Park. Towards the end of the two and a half hour guided tour, the conference's social event, we are walking past a Wafels and Dinges truck. "Good things Belgian," I read out the slogan to my fellow Bruxellois. The vendor, noticing the attention from our group, asks if we are Belgian. Without thinking, I immediately say yes, surprising the Belgian group, my Australian soon-to-be boss, and even myself...
228. Times Square. Hard Rock's Café. Being called a garbage gut, after I have tasted five out of six meals on the table (skipping one person's dinner because it was a salad), then a woman after my own heart, when I take Claire's plate to finish off her burger and fries. Picking up his knife and fork, the compliment giver then joins me in the quest of cleaning up the table's leftovers.
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