We worked together for only one week. How old was I at the time, thirty-three? I'd experienced one thousand seven hundred twenty-three other weeks to compare that one week with, but that week - the one that featured you, with your condescending mug grinning away at my mounting anger - was one of the most annoying weeks of my life. You were an interpreter for our interviews in the Netherlands, but you showed up late for every interview. And every conversation we had more or less ended with you shaking your head at the ridiculous habits and preoccupations of North Americans. Like punctuality. And courtesy. Christ.
But at least you showed up for every interview, so you're one up on Wolfgang, our interpreter in Austria. And Wolfgang smelled pretty ripe, like he slept in his clothes. So two points for you, Ria.