‘As the year draws to a close and we are celebrating it’s also a time to reflect. Are our celebrations joyful or hedonistic, should we cry instead of laugh. Should we celebrate our lucky selves or should we bemoan the fate of those less fortunate?’ I asked Camp as I took my seat and Vicky served us wearing a rakish white Santa hat.
‘Maybe we can do both. Compartmentalize is my key word for the year,’ Camp said.
‘Was it a good year? Will the next year be better?’
Camp was pensively looking out the window at the grey waters of Howe Sound. ‘What’s there to look forward to in the next year?’ he shrugged his bony shoulders, shaking his unruly mane of curly grey? ‘Best not to think too far ahead and concentrate on the here and now.’
I’m not sure if he was being facetious or serious. I call myself a realist which is often mixed up with a pessimist or a cynic. ‘I will try to keep my focus on the things I can influence and maybe even change or at least comment on and maybe be heard. Shut out the noise from the rest of the world and concentrate on what’s going on in my life. Is that being selfish or obtuse? Is that kind of ostrich behaviour good for my health? Maybe but it is what people around me – Clare, you and assorted friends – recommend?’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ was Camp’s response.
Personally, my last year was a success. I travelled, sailed, biked and hiked; I stayed healthy and enjoyed hanging out with friends and family. Life is good and I do my very best to continue on in the same mode for next year.
On the downside I lost some important people in my life: one a long-time friend who exited with dignity, courage and humour despite the collapse of his nervous system that left him paralyzed but cognizant. As Al said when we said good-by to him: It was nice knowing you. Two others were not close friends but outstanding individuals who I interacted with over a number of years, who encouraged and supported me in my writing attempts and who shared their own thoughts and time. They both passed suddenly, taken out of this life without any indication that their time was up. Both were healthy to within a week or ten days of their passing and had already made plans for next year’s travel and beyond. I will miss Bev and Jaime.
On the upside we welcomed two new members to our family, both girls, Lou and Mara, born to nieces and nephews in Switzerland and it strikes me as profound that those babies will be in my age group when the present century draws to a close. What adventures and challenges await them is an exciting and intriguing mystery. It seems like a long time looking ahead but looking back is a different vista altogether. While the future stretches out infinite ahead of us, the past is now compressed into memories and stories, repeated over and over until present company stifles a yawn. ‘Thanks Camp.’.
‘Any predictions for the new year?’ Camp asked.
‘Let me consult my crystal ball,’ I said, staring into my empty pint. ‘Trump will choke on a cheeseburger, Trudeau will come out as gay and the Ukrainians, Israelis and Palestinians will be supported in managing their own countries.’
‘Sounds more like a Santa wishlist than predictions.’
‘Maybe but here is a small fact. Fresh off the press. The world population grew by 75 million in 2023 and will pass 8 billion people on New Year’s Day, according to the U.S. Census Bureau.’
Camp pondered this and let it sink in.
‘All I know is that time is fleeting and you better drink up. Here come the refills.’
‘The best of the season to you and your families,’ Vicky toasted us while setting down the last two foaming mugs of golden goodness in front of us.
‘What are you two up to for Christmas?’ I asked Camp. ‘Is there going to be turkey and jingle bells? Is Sophie coming home?’
‘Sophie isn’t coming to the coast from Montreal. Too much stress and too expensive to travel at this time of year.’
‘I could ask Clare if she would like to get together, maybe cook a bird and have a few drinks and laughs.’
‘Let me tell you a little Christmas story that happened many moons ago,’ Camp said. ‘It still makes me cringe and is one of the reasons I don’t really subscribe to turkey and all the hoopla. It was a time when I was friends with Cassandra. Before your time buddy.’
‘Now I’m intrigued. I thought you’re the consummate bachelor before you met Muriel.’
‘I was not a monk.’
‘Would you like to host this year’s Christmas dinner at your place?’ Cassandra’s mom asked us, looking at me. ‘It would be so much more convenient for everybody and it would be a neutral place.’
‘Neutral?’
‘Well, yes. Sandy, Cassandra’s sister, doesn’t want to have Chuck’s parents over. The mother just rides her ragged and the father drinks and gets obnoxious.’
Really. Sounds like pleasant company and why would I want to have those people over for Christmas dinner? Doesn’t sound like fun, more like a ritual sacrifice. I didn’t say that aloud. Instead I suggested: ‘Why don’t we all just go to the pub. That’s pretty neutral.’
Cassandra’s mom shook her head. ‘You know it would be such a favour and everyone would pitch in and help you cook the turkey and prepare the dinner.’
Cassandra looked at her mom skeptically, craning her neck skywards and slowly rubbing it, a pose she assumed when she worked out a problem. ‘You know mom, this isn’t going to go over very easy. Some major convincing needs to happen. Nothing short of flattery and bribery.’
I held my tongue and sipped the expensive wine her mom had brought over but not without a certain degree of anticipation. There would be a price to pay.
‘You’re such a good cook and pleasant host and you’re so good at it. It wouldn’t even be a big event. Just like a fun party.’
‘Dinner for ten?’ I said. Six of whom I don’t know or even like. Some party. ‘More wine please.’
‘Honey…’ My ears perked up, my sphincter clenched and I basically tensed up. Whenever Cassandra used that term of endearment, I knew I was being trapped and coerced. ‘Honey, do it for me and the family.’
How could I say no. I’m such a jovial host, such an outstanding cook and such a sucker for manipulative females. ‘All right, I’ll do it.’
‘You’re such a good sport,’ the mom said. ‘Pass me the rest of that wine will you.’
Since I was in charge of cooking the turkey, Cassandra volunteered to make her favorite desert, Pavlova, a recipe from her days in New Zealand. The secret was to let the merengue cool in the oven over night and I was forbidden – on the penalty of instant death – to open the oven door. I had only turkey on my mind and when I got up on Christmas morning, the first thing I did was preheat the oven and then went to have a shower.
I was not prepared for the blood curdling scream that came from the kitchen. I almost choked on my toothbrush but at the very instant the penny dropped and I rushed upstairs, three steps at a time, to undo the damage. But it was too late. I’ve never seen Cassandra in such a state of agitation, she was visibly trembling with anger and disappointment, all directed at me. ‘How could you, after I told you over and over not to open the oven.’
‘I didn’t open it,” I stammered, I just eh…wanted to pre-heat.’
‘You’ve ruined the merengue. Look! It’s collapsed and there is a big crack.’
‘Nothing that can’t be fixed with plenty of whipped cream, nobody will notice, believe me.’
Cassandra gave me a killer stare but eventually settled down to a seething agitated state and carried her precious, damaged Pavlova away from me, the vicious dessert killer.
The turkey was in the oven, doing what it was supposed to and the jams, Brussel sprouts and mashed potatoes were on the stove and Cassandra was once again fussing with the Christmas tree which I bought from the scouts for twenty bucks. The table was set with festive napkins, candles and party gags, the doorways festooned with cedar and holly branches, Christmas music in the background, cracking logs in the fire place and the succulent aromas from the kitchen wafting through the house. The guests arrived and behaved predictably. Chuck lamented the weather and the state of the world; Sandy’s dark dress was inappropriate and Chuck’s dad had obviously started to celebrate early and was well into his cups. Cassandra’s mom beamed and was enjoying the banter. Even the injured Pavlova looked perfect, decorated with loads of whipped cream, kiwis and strawberries.
‘Wow Camp,’ I had no idea. ‘We don’t have to do a turkey or a pavlova. How about a Swiss fondue and pineapple with tequila for dessert?’
‘Does it feel like the world is in precarious shape, politically, economically and morally?’ I asked Camp, still trying to digest the morning news of slaughter, mayhem, lies and politics.
‘You really need a break from the endless news cycle of misery. Look at the beauty around you, cherish the people you know, have a laugh, listen to some music.’
‘I know you’re right Camp but this war in the middle east wakes me up, the spectre of another Trump presidency makes me break out in a rash and Putin’s war of attrition, sacrificing thousands of lives for his hubris is making me ill. Those are just the top three on a long list of wrongs.’
‘We both know that your feelings about all this will not change anything in the world out there but may very well impact your health, your relationships with people and your state of mind. You’re turning into a cantankerous pessimist; worse than just a cynic like me.’
‘You’re right. All this bad news is affecting my mind. The world needs a reset so everybody can start again. We cannot go around in an endless cycle of blood feuds, revenge and punitive bloodshed fuelled by hate and disinformation. Most of all, the present generation cannot pay for the sins of their forefathers and we cannot use history as a motivator for future policies and behaviour. To re-live the past and saddle the present and next generation with the guilt of their fathers is unfair and a burden nobody should carry.’
This post I published a few years back but this time of year I’m always reminded of how old customs change and history is revised. One of the mythical figures at this time of year is Santa who today is a silly old man with a beard who holds no authority and cannot put kids on his knees any longer. How different it was when I was a kid back in Switzerland. Here it goes:
I like walking to the pub, along the beach into the village, before it gets dark. This time of year, the town is festooned with ornate seasonal lighting and quirky front yard scenes of blowup reindeer and chubby Santas. I needed to tell Camp about my dramatic childhood Santa experience.
“I do like the colourful lights and whimsical fairy tale displays,” Campbell said as I sat down at our usual table. “It brightens up the dark dreary days.”
“Do you know what day it was yesterday?” I asked Camp, after ordering two frosty mugs from Vicky, who wore a cute Santa hat with a white tassel.
“The 6th of December,” he answered with a curious look.
“Exactly, it was Saint Nicholas Day, commonly known around here as Santa Claus or simply Santa. Where I grew up Santa was a vastly different version than the one Coca Cola and Disney invented.”
“Oh yeah, how so?” Camp asked.
“Santa was a personage that struck fear and terror into the hearts of kids. I used to hide in the farthest corner under the bed in complete dread of the loathsome Santa. He would come into the homes of people where the parents had arranged the visit, dressed in red or blue with a kind of tiara like the pope on his bearded head and usually accompanied by two black robed and hooded servants or helpers. Nasty characters. Santa carried the dreaded black book with all your sins noted in there; how you didn’t listen to your parents, how many times you beat up your sister and how you didn’t do your homework. He would know details of your misdeeds and then meted out appropriate punishments with a whip made out of twigs, according to the wishes of the parents who pre-arranged all that, but we frightened kids didn’t know that. I tell you Camp, Saint Nick’s day was the most dreaded day in all the year. I would get whipped and only then, after the punishment, would Santa’s sinister helpers dispense some goodies like nuts and chocolates.”
“Sounds medieval,” Camp said, shaking his head.
“In Germany and Austria the evil Santa is called Krampus, a cloven hooved demon-like creature who snatches up the worst behaved children, stuffs them into a bag and then carries them off to his mountain lair. Our Santas in Switzerland would occasionally stuff kids into their bag with the threat to take them back to the Black Forest. Every year, kids would die of heart attacks.”
“You’re kidding?” Camp said, almost spilling his beer.
“Remember, this was the fifties and sixties and before anybody heard of the Coca Cola or Hollywood version of Santa. But here comes the good part: We took our revenge to the Santas when we were teenagers. Armed with slingshots and hiding behind snow banks or trees we would wait for the Santas to emerge from their cars. Ducking and dodging our onslaught they would run towards their appointments through a rain of pellets and horseshoe nails. Then we would again wait for their return and attack them again, cat calling and throwing rocks and pepper them with projectiles from our boyish weapons. Most of these Santas were guys who would make a bit of extra cash, some of them drifters and most likely not your best upstanding citizens, if you get my drift. As you can see my Santa experience is somewhat different from here. Every time I see a little boy or girl being forced screaming and crying onto some fat Santa’s lap at the mall I recall those days when we hunted them down.”
“Maybe you should go see somebody about this my friend,” Camp said, “this sounds like some nasty childhood trauma you’re dealing with. Santa psychosis. I can’t imagine. I’ll buy you a beer for that story. I’ll never look at Santa the same way. You managed to completely destroy a picture of perfect bliss and benign good will and replace it with what you call that guy? Krampus? Schmutzli?
We both solemnly looked at the rendition of a jolly red Santa pulled by a slew of cartoon reindeer across the pub’s front window. I do prefer the local version of the tubby gift bearing Santa sliding down a chimney for a welcome of warm milk or a beer to the one I grew up with.
Vicky brought us two foaming mugs and said: “These are on the house boys, compliments from Santa for our regular guests.”
We had a plan for the first day. We were going to make it to Port Townsend on the Olympia peninsula, just a day’s drive from home. Since it was the end of October, naturally it was a grey and rainy day. Our first stop was the Peace Arch border crossing. Was my pot bust from 1974 in Montreal going to affect my status? Were they going to confiscate our camper van, throw us out? We had our spiel rehearsed: No arguing and contradicting each other like the last time we crossed into the USA. As in:
Border guard: How long to you plan to stay in the USA?
Me: About a month
Betty: Maybe more like two months
Boarder guard: And where do you plan to travel to?
Me: San Diego, I have a cousin there.
Betty: We’re also planning to go to Mexico
Border guard: Maybe you two should talk. Have a nice trip.
We waited about an hour in line until we finally got to the checkpoint. The young border guard just wanted to know how long we planned to stay. I answered. Betty smiled. He wished us a good trip. We were in. Just like that. Travelling USA.
A couple of hours later we arrived at the Coupeville ferry terminal on Whitbey Island. The 20minute sailing deposited us in Port Townshend. The ferry itself was an ugly, bulky tub which made our old ferries look like cruise ships. The coast: US$ 14 including the van. The best and only deal, as we soon found out.
Port Townsend is a picturesque waterfront town featuring a historic main street with Art Deco buildings, once a thriving wild harbour scene overlooked by some pretty Victorian houses up the hillside. It reminded us a bit of Nelson in the Kootenays.
It happened to be Halloween and we passed some garishly decorated front yards, full of blow-up ghouls, tombstones and skeletons. We also found a great French restaurant – Alchemy – for dinner and here came our first surprise. $$$! Also, our small van, – a ROADTREK – coast us US$ 65 to park in the waterfront RV park. Petrol, which we thought was cheaper than at home came in at US$ 5.50 a gallon. Maybe a few pennies less than in Gibsons. Thinking the US is cheaper than Gibsons B.C was just an illusion. We found all the prices from restaurants to groceries are dollar for dollar and higher for many items. Considering that we paid Can$ 1.40 for every US greenback. That made prices almost one and a half time higher than home. This makes Vancouver and the Sunshine Coast a bargain for US tourists.
The Olympic peninsula is a large scenic park with hot springs in the middle of it and miles of rainforest hikes. We followed the road along the water up to Port Angeles and could see Vancouver Island across the Salish Sea. M.V. Coho and Clipper actually depart from here to Victoria. All along the scenic route we drove through a few reserve lands. Some featured Casinos which offered free camping. We opted instead for campgrounds with hookups, showers and toilets. Also, we passed by several unsightly roadside clearcuts; something you won’t see up north.
One overnight stop was at the Three Rivers campsite, a reserve town famous for the setting of 2008 movie Twilight. This wooded campground was close to Rialto Beach, a dramatic waterfront with a pebble beach and jagged outcroppings breaking the onslaught of the relentless Pacific. A great place for a lunch or sunsets. We grabbed our chairs and set up on the water’s edge, watching the endless waves roll in.
We followed the coastline around the peninsula and overnighted at Westport Winery, a Harvest Host. They offer free overnight parking and can be found all over the US and Canada. This winery featured a whimsical Mermaid Museum, a gourmet deli and a wine bar. We did all three.
One aspect of road travel is the everchanging scenery, like a non-stop 3D movie going by. Driving also meant constantly being aware of your surroundings, three mirrors and the front view, always checking and reacting to changing conditions. I like driving and mentioned to Betty that I could have been a long-haul trucker. She was not impressed.
We stopped in Newport to watch the odorous, barking sea lions and then had a clam chowder for lunch at Mo’s. We passed up on the sea caves, where an elevator brings you down into a large protected cave full of smelly, barking and rutting sea lions.
Our next overnight stop was the Blue Heron Cheese factory in Tillamook, also a Harvest Host. This town featured a large creamery with an output of thousands of pounds of cheddar cheese and ice cream. We did a self-guided tour which also showed us on large screens the happy cows, sleeping on foamies and walking into automated milk machines two or three times a day. They didn’t tell us what happens to these bovines once the milk dries up. Beef bouillon? Pet food? Shoe polish?
We followed the dramatic coast of Oregon, past miles of sandy beaches with rough seas coming in, steep rocky cliffs, a long stretch of large dunes and quaint little towns with names like ‘Cape of Foul Weather’. Indeed, the rain was driving sideways, windshield wipers on max. From Leggat we headed west and took the long, steep and windy connector to Hwy #1
The redwoods were one of our destinations on this trip and we weren’t disappointed. We stopped in Crescent City, just inside California and got some excellent tips from a park ranger. He directed us into a newly opened trail system in Jedediah Smith State Park off Walker Road. Grove of the Titans took our breath away. The gigantic trees, 1500 – 2500 years old are truly awesome. One of them was 22m in circumference and 7m diameter. They dwarfed our Cathedral Grove on Vancouver Island. These redwood trees were simply from another age, from long before the colonisers cut down 95% of them. It staggers the mind.
The Napa Valley was another of our destinations and we came into it from the West, over the Mayacamas Mountains. After the twisty, slow road we descended into Sonoma Valley which at this time of year was a carpet of gold and red which stretched out before us. Acres and acres of vines which continued into the neighbouring Napa Valley. It was a stunning sight. Vineyards filled the valley and up the slopes of the Sanoma Mountains to the east and the Mayacamas range to the west. We stopped in Calistoga which is like a small version of Whistler or Banff. The main throughfare is lined with fancy wine boutiques and expensive restaurants, spa hotels and resorts with hot springs. Wine tastings were $ 50 per person which didn’t really interest us but we did find a place which served us a glass of wine which didn’t force us into mortgaging the house. Napa Valley is about 40km long and 4km wide and lined with wineries and vineyards, some of them Italian, baroque castles and all of them with expensive, overpriced wines. Chateau Montelena won the historic Judgment of Paris wine competition for its 1973 Chardonnay and put Napa on the map of the world’s best wine regions. This story was made into the 2008 movie Bottle Shock starring the late Alan Rickman.
We camped at the State Park outside of Calistoga and were able to use the local shuttle bus for a dollar a ride. Since most visitors came to the valley for the wines, a shuttle service made sense.
Napa City with its 80’000 inhabitants was a disappointment. Again, a main street lined with name brand luxury stores, wine boutiques and art galleries appealing to a well-heeled crowd. Nowhere were there any cozy grottos or restaurants that served open, local wine as they do in the Bordeaux region or the Medoc or the hill towns of Italy and Spain. All the wine was expensive. No such thing as a cheap Napa wine.
We had to get around San Francisco since we had no desire to stop in the city. We’ve been here before and rode the F-line streetcar along Market Street to Fisherman’s wharf and had a serving of chowder in a famous sourdough bowl. We just wanted to get to the other side to Half Moon Bay. There was a disagreement between the two navigators. Mandy from the TomTom GPS and Betty sitting next to me with her map. I missed a couple of exits which flushed us past the city into an ever-growing river of cars down the multi lane #880 Freeway. Scanning 3 mirrors and the front windshield while listening to the calm and sexy voice of GPS Mandy telling me to stay left and the frustrated directions from Betty informing me that I missed yet another exit didn’t make for fun driving. Eventually I was able to get out of this nightmarish traffic hell and after driving for about 40km north we made it to our destination: Pelican Point, just west of Halfmoon Bay. The RV park cost us US$ 90 but it did offer laundry services and DVD rentals for $ 1. We watched Away, a 1989 Spielberg film with Holly Hunter, Richard Dreyfuss and a young and hilarious John Goodman. The Park was right next to a Ritz Carlton Hotel which towered on top of a cliff above the foaming and wild Pacific. It sat next to a ritzy Golf course but the clubhouse was open to anyone and served a decently priced pub menu. We dined beside the millionaire golfers, feeling a tad out of place.
Looking at the map we figured we’d make it to Morro Bay, our final destination, just a couple hours short of LA. We took the fastest route along #280 to #101 and #41 to the Morro Bay State Park by the lagoon, right next to the State Park golf course. We parked, plugged in and then walked along the boardwalk and enjoyed a spectacular sunset. We had a dinner of fajitas and enchiladas at the Bayview Café just next to the RV park. Dinner included a liter of open local wine from Paso Robles. We felt that we had arrived.
The next morning, we walked the boardwalk again along the estuary and saw a myriad of birds: flocks of cormorants, egrets, solitary herons and sandpipers and cruising above us falcons looking for easy prey. Even the odd monarch butterfly flitted by. We checked out the seaside village with all the galleries, tourist and surf shops, had the best roast beef sandwich at the Hofbrau waterfront café and watched the lazy sea-otters and sealions along the active harbour front. In the near distance loomed Morro Rock, a colossal plug left over from an ancient volcano and the defining landmark. We walked to the Inn on the Park which offered Happy Hour specials and spectacular views of the rock and sunsets on the bay. The weather was a balmy 20+ degrees. Life was good.
We needed our rear brakes fixed and were at the shop first thing on Monday morning. As promised, they got right to it and two hours and US$ 280 later, we had new rear brakes. We got another roast beef sandwich and parked by the beach next to the rock, watching the surfers and sea kayakers catching the waves.
Back at the campground we got our chairs and a drink and sat on the beach to watch the spectacular sunset show one more time. The next day we decided to start the long trek back up the coast heading for home. We stopped north of Hearst Castle (which we visited once before) to watch the young sea elephants resting on the same beach forever. We also stopped in Carmel by the Sea, a ritzy town full of high-end shops, expensive wine tasting rooms and classy villas lining the streets down to the expansive beach and adjacent park.
This time we opted to drive over the Golden Gate bridge and right through downtown San Francisco which proved easier than going around the city. We arrived at the Nelson winery, north of Hopland, our 3rd Harvest Host, just next to the #101. After some mandatory wine tasting we bought a bottle and camped under a massive oak tree next to the vineyard.
The next day we stopped for a seafood lunch at Crescent City and then made it to Gold Beach, Oregon where we stayed in the downtown RV park for the best deal yet. $ 40 for a full hook up and within walking distance to shops, restaurants and the beach. We meandered along the wild Oregon coast, marvelling at the dramatic scenery and made it to Gearhart just south of the Olympia Peninsula. One more pasta dinner in the van.
We were up early and made it to the border in good time and all the way to Horseshoe Bay where we got on the 4:20 ferry. We were happy to be home again after 5’000km and 3 weeks on the road.
‘How do people on fixed income deal with inflation these days?’ I asked Camp after he got comfortable with a pint in front of him.
‘With difficulty is the simple answer but we both know that being squeezed financially has many ramifications. It can lead to anxiety, fighting, drinking, depression and worse. If you’re income is fixed and the bills double or triple the result is not good.’
‘As rents and mortgage rates double, food bills triple and incomes stay the same, it’s obvious what’s happening. The rich get richer and the poor get poorer.’
‘Rising income and wealth inequality are stoking social discontent and are a major driver of the increased political polarization and populist nationalism that are so evident today. Even if the grocery chains deny profiting from inflation, they’re profits rise simply because the prices are higher. If they make 5% on a $ 10 item before the pandemic, now they make the same 5% on the same item that now costs $ 20. Looks like their profits also doubled.’
‘While $ 10 of a fixed pension now only buys half of the same product as before Covid, which goes to show how depressing this inflation is for many seniors.’
‘Yes, I hear the same from my customers who are finding it more and more difficult to adjust to the rising cost of living, while their pensions stay the same. They have to change their daily routines in order to cope with the harsh reality and to make ends meet and many seniors are seeking help from charitable organisations. They can’t do the things they used to like going out for lunch with their friends or taking in a show or movie because they can’t afford it. Even visiting the grandkids in the city becomes an unwanted expense.’
‘A new report from Food Banks Canada found that this year’s food bank usage is at its highest since the survey started in 1989. Nearly two million visits to food banks in March 2023, up over 30% from the same time last year and over 200’000 of those visits were in British Columbia alone,’ I said.
‘You can blame the high house prices and soaring mortgage rates. Since 2020 nominal house prices have climbed by roughly 40% and fixed-rate mortgage rose from 3.1% to 7.3%, lifting the mortgage payments on a typical house by more than 50%.
‘Vancouver still leads the way as Canada’s most expensive city for renters, with the average one-bedroom unit listed at $2,872 and a two-bedroom at $3,777.’
‘Who can afford that? CMHC (Canada Mortgage and Housing Corporation) predicts that in the next 2 years an estimated 2.2 million households will be facing interest rate shock as they have to renew their mortgages, representing 45% of all outstanding mortgages in Canada. In the real world a $ 500’000 mortgage with a five-year fixed rate and a 25 year amortization will go from just under 2% to 5.5% and will represent about a $ 1’000 increase in monthly payments.’
‘Welcome to the future,’ I said.
Ask me how I feel about paying $ 10 for a pint of beer?’
Bruno's point of view 