Andrea flies to Berlin tomorrow, and we bid her farewell at a very cramped table at the White Bear bar on Friday night.
White Bear, Saskatchewan: population 9.
When all the guests with small children had gone home, the evening disintegrated into uncontrollable giggling, and creating random origami from napkins. This, apparently, is a chicken wing.
The next day I stopped by her farm, to say goodbye, and also “We should meet up in France!”. Her suitcases were in various stages of being packed, and she was dreading the running around and various ‘adieus’ left to give to members of her family, and I thought “Oh shit – this is going to be me soon.”
25 days, to be exact.