Notes from a reluctant kitchen...

Confession: I hate food writing. In undergrad, I took a creative non-fiction writing course, during the course of which we were required to read and attempt different genres. I loathed the food segment, during which we were force-fed Amanda Hesser's insipid (to my mind anyway) Cooking For Mr. Latte, and encouraged to send food-related "dispatches" from our fall break travels. At its worst, food writing makes me nauseous. I love a good restaurant review (this one, by the delightfully acerbic A. A. Gill in this month's Vanity Fair is a gem), but I can't stomach the actual description of food itself. I've been like this since childhood - a description of french fries in Ramona Cleary, Age 8 actually made me gag. Food writing repels me in a way that echoes the revulsion I feel flipping through the love scenes of a Harlequin romance (not a regular activity, to be fair, though my late great aunt was a devotee) or when listening to undergraduates attempting to "understand" T. S. Eliot. Some experiences, eating among them, are too sensual to reduce to prose.

Far better to just provide pictures, which is the method I've chosen to share with you several Polish-themed food adventures we have recently undertaken in the Flat of Doom. What catalysed this sudden culinary activity? Essentially, we've become a bit sick of eating out and, since attempting to grocery shop the way we would in the UK (fresh bunches of coriander from the Asian grocery store purchased on a twice-weekly basis, a significant Waitrose habit, really good bread), we thought we'd go (a bit) native and see what happened. Before beginning, I should express my thanks to the Bomi Delicatessan, aka War-trose, for providing a happier shopping experience than Dirty Carrefour and consistently stocking mushrooms, the lack of which had really been getting us down:

Our first attempt took place last Friday and was not a terribly high-brow meal, being comprised mainly of pierogies and hotdogs. Accordingly, we lit candles and banned all condiment jars/bottles/etc. from the table:

We rescued the pierogies from the freezer, to which Paul had relegated them while I was in Prague. I'd bought them during one of our first Warsaw grocery shops, since they rekindled fond memories of undergrad and a certain Mrs. T...

As will be evident from the above photo-collage (diky, photovisi), the amusement factor of the meal was significantly elevated by the inclusion of these sensible, if slightly rude-looking hot dog rolls.

Yesterday, I embarked on a new adventure, this time alone. I decided I felt like cake, and that it was therefore time to investigate the baking aisle. As each country's flour is a law unto itself, I decided to cheat by using a mix. I chose lemon cake, since my body, possibly in an attempt to ward of what feels like inevitable scurvy, has been craving all things citrus. Also because I could understand the directions.

Here are the ingredients I assembled. Note the semi-terrifying long-life milk and scary baking margarine, which I am nevertheless extremely proud to have properly identified.

And here is the (not terribly glamorous) result:

.

Slightly burned, though still tasty. I shall not elaborate, as that would stray into food-writing territory. I will, however admit that, while it's been fun, and may doubtless continue, I'm quite pleased to be putting the Polish culinary experimentation on hold tonight in favor of dinner at Frida.

Inauspicious Monday

It's really hard to cheer yourself up in Warsaw. I learned this today when I woke surprisingly in need of cheering. I'm not sure what to attribute this to - the past four weeks have been a flurry of academic and grant-writing activity (hence the lack of posts), but last Thursday I managed to meet an important thesis-related deadline, so I should be feeling quite good about the world. Still, this morning I awoke feeling tired and hopeless, despite the aggressive bright sunbeams streaming through my window, which caused me to go running for my sunglasses, having misplaced my sleeping mask. Paul found this amusing and promptly snapped a photo of me in this state - a photo which will NOT be turning up here under any circumstances.

Deciding I had earned some sort of horrible girly perk, I decided to get my nails done. This seemed particularly appropriate, as I had chewed on them maniacally while rewriting the thesis, an activity which did not leave them looking particularly lovely. I phoned two manicure salons, neither of which could give me an appointment today. Strike one.

Not to be daunted, I decided to vacate the Flat of Doom (just because I've stopped complaining about it doesn't mean the Warsaw abode and I are now simpatico) to do some work at the local cafe. My old laptop wouldn't talk to the wifi there, but I figured my new one would and I could stay there until early afternoon. Wrong again.

Facing the reality that I would have to return to the FoD earlier than anticipated, I decided to pick up some sushi. As the kitchen currently resembles the set of Withnail and I, not having to cross its threshold was a decided bonus. I surveyed the sushi options in Local Cafe and decided they were uninspiring enough to warrant a search for the take away sushi place Paul showed me a few weeks ago, but which I had yet to try. I set off in what I firmly believed was the right direction. It wasn't.

Cold (the sun was cruelly misleading), I turned back, consoling myself with the thought of the chicken noodle soup I'd bought last week. This being Poland, it was instant, but at least it would be warm and tasty. Alas, when I returned home and braved the kitchen, it transpired that I had purchased not soup, but some sort of bouillon, requiring a pre-existing vegetable stock. I thought I'd try it anyway, but couldn't get the stove to work (have I mentioned that the burners function only sporadically?), as a result of which I am now eating last night's leftover salad and with a mood that is worse than it was when I decided to improve it.

I've nothing else to say, really, so here is a picture of a squirrel from Lazienski Park...

It was wonderfully tame, but alas did not wish to eat any of the nuts we brought for it. Trying carrots and bread next time.

Fidlovačka, or No Tag and No Joy

In a week of milestones, which included my first completely successful Czech language phone call, last night was my first trip to a non-subtitled Czech play. I went to see Fidlovačka, aneb kde domov můj? at Divadlo na Vinohradech. Fidlovačka is a nineteenth-century Czech play by J. K. Tyl with music by František Škroup. It was first performed in 1834 when its nationalistic content and championing of the Czech language in a German-dominated cultural sphere caused quite a stir. The performance was banned for a time and Tyl considered it a failure. It was later resurrected and enjoyed great success, its greatest achievement being the adoption of the fourth act aria, “Where is my home?” as the Czech national anthem. The subtitle of the original production translates to “no anger and no brawl,” but the one playing at the Vinohrady Theatre invokes the national anthem and juxtaposes the original text and story with debates in EU Parliament concerning the adoption of an EU symbol, flag, and/or anthem. Impassioned debates about collective and national identity ensue. The Czech delegate is particularly outspoken – he is tremendously concerned with the preservation of Czech national identity and ends the first act with a rant concerning the importance haček, a diacritical mark that essentially ads an „h“ to Czech consonents (š is pronounced “sh”, for example). His final (hilarious) point was “Čapek neni Capek!” – a reference to the frequent mispronunciation of celebrated author Karel.

The performance was also remarkable for the appearance of the dignified and formidable Jířina Jirásková as Parliament chairwoman. Born in 1931, she’s performed at the Vinohrady theatre for an amazing sixty years. As always when I got to a “stone theatre” (read big, official) in the Czech Republic, I am struck by the sheer number of bodies on stage – there must have been thirty people on stage last night, about twenty of them playing Euro-MPs, lending credibility to the Parliament scenes and chiming on the songs as Tyl and Škroup’s text increasingly dominated proceedings in the second act. It makes me long to have been born in such a system, in which a career as a theatre actor is a reasonably attainable and financially viable goal in a way it just isn’t in countries that lack repertory systems.

The only hiccup in the evening was my interaction with the lady who ran the šatna – the coat room. When I checked my coat prior to the start of the play, she chided for me coat's lack of a tag that would facilitate hanging. Here it is, in all its barren glory:

I don't know what this is called in Czech (or even if there’s a specific English term) and I’m not up on my tailoring vocab, so I’m not sure if she was cross with me (admittedly in a pleasant, good humored way) for failing to sew one in, or with my beloved COS for failing to place one in the coat. As I waited for the play to begin, I couldn’t help wondering if there’s a correlation between a country’s degree of coat-check obsession and the occurrence of hang tags on locally available coats. My coat is manufactured by a Swedish label and I purchased it in the UK, where coat checking is nowhere near as common as it is in central eastern Europe, though I would think that there’d be a high incidence of it in Sweden, given the length and severity of the winters. Considering the Czech (and Polish) dedication to coat-checking (which I quite like, when I'm not getting in trouble), I wonder if a coat’s check-ability is considered when deciding which brands to import. Have I finally discovered why so many of my favorite labels have no foothold in the Czech market?

Unfortunately, my relationship with the keeper of the coats did not improve post-show, when my exit from the loge revealed the fact that I’d had the audacity to check my troublesome coat when there was ample space and coat-hooks in my box. I only realized this was what she said later, as I replayed it in my head…at the time, the surprise at being publicly dressed down over a hang-tag and my lack of suitable vocabulary for the situation conspired to render me mute and unresponsive. While it is now an amusing anecdote, the entire encounter makes me long for spring, when it will no longer be necessary to take a coat of any description along for a night at the theatre.

PS - Curiosity and a desire to avoid writing a conference paper on hybrid-form theatre has led me to explore the hang-tag issue further. I'm now back in Warsaw with the rest of my coats, which I have now surveyed, along with some of Mr P's. Coats and blazers with tags (by brand and nation of purchase): Wilson's Leather (US), Brooks Brothers (US), J. Crew (US), Zara (PL), Superdry (UK). The only other coat sans tag (apart from random vintage ones) is my black and white full-length Zara wrap coat, purchased, unlike Mr P's peacoat, in the UK, lending (admittedly inconclusive) credence to the theory that tags are added and subtracted according to market. Fascinating.

And you shall know her by her left ear….

Happy New Year! (How late is that still an acceptable way to begin a communication and/or to explain away with three words one's complete lack of productivity over a period of time which encompasses, but is not limited to, the festive season?)

This mid-January day finds me in Warsaw, where it is particularly January-some in the most depressing way: unrelieved grey skies coinciding with the uninspiring sight of dirty snow melting to reveal just how many cigarette butts, tram tickets and other discarded items were dropped in it over the past month. Nasty. At least the Christmas decorations have remained up, which ameliorates things somewhat. In praise of Poland, I must admit that it's lovely to be once more in a country where people do not believe that Christmas decorations left up past January 6^th transform magically into harbingers of doom and general bad luck. I'm not sure quite how widespread this belief is – I first encountered it in the UK, but I don't know where it originated. In my family, we tend to leave the decorations up for as long as possible, in part because my mother completely redecorates the house for Christmas – after so much work and creativity, it seems churlish to tear it all down immediately. Given the shortness of the days here (it's dark before 3.30pm), I'm glad the Poles share my mother's approach and have the left the lights on a bit longer:

The festive lights are of particular comfort to me on this week of bureaucratic tasks. I'm off to Prague for research-related adventures at the weekend, so have only this week to sort out visa-related hiccups. Thus far, I've been to get a medulnek (a sort of local residency permit, a bit like a Czech ubytování, which allows you to then get a visa) and to have my picture taken for my eventual visa. The picture-taking process has given this post its title: Polish official portraits require that you show your left ear, while your body is turned slightly to the right and your head tilted to precisely the right angle to display said ear, and the rest of your facial features, simultaneously. You can also smile, slightly, like this:

To get this image, the photographer and I communicated using my new system. The longer I'm here, the more I realize that I can actually understand the gist of basic conversations, provided I keep calm and don't start mentally hyperventilating the moment someone addresses me. In fact, it works best when I imagine that they're speaking to somebody else. This strategy dovetails nicely with my approach to making up for the fact that I don't actually speak Polish. In preparation for specific encounters (like the one with the photographer, or a trip to the drycleaner after I'd lost my claim ticket) I write down exactly what I need or what has happened, in Polish. Google Translate and/or Polish friends are very helpful in this regard. Upon reaching my destination, I explain, in Polish, that I do not speak Polish, and hand over the note. Assuming the person I'm speaking to doesn't speak English, I handle anything else that comes up with a combination of Czech verbs (most basic verbs are similar) and miming (I don't trust the nouns to overlap as much as the verbs do). So far, this seems to be working. I managed to communicate with the photography shop man quite effectively – I was even able to convey the fact that I'd left my hat in the shop's coat closet and needed him to retrieve it for me. I also find people respond better to this approach. I'm not sure why – perhaps it's better not to include English and, by doing so, imply that I expect them to speak it, or perhaps they actually think I'm from another Slavic country. I don't know. But so far, so good, in any case. The photo-fetching scenario had the hallmarks of a potential Polish disaster written all over it, but went down much better than Monday's attempt to reconnect the internet, which saw myself and Mr. P spend ninety minutes running maniacally back and forth between the post office and tp, with Polish friends on speed dial, clutching stacks of bills and receipts and trying neither to cry nor swear very loudly and at great length.

Now if only I could figure out what the notice taped to my building's door says…something about personal safety and the gas meter. Oh dear…Google Translate, here I come.

Journalism gone rogue - a run-in with Fox News

So here I am, back in the States for less than 48 hours and I’ve already had a run-in with Fox News. I didn’t mean for it to happen, really I didn’t. I was at the gym, happily running along to the inane but harmless babble of the Today Show, when it was replaced by some bizarre program called Dr Oz. Despite my near-religions devotion to NPR and Vanity Fair, I only encounter American popular culture en masse about every six to eight months, so things like Dr Oz, whose show appears to be a sort of “Ask the Doctor” advice column come to life, sneak up on me. Today the good doc’s topic, complete with graphics, terrifying diagrams and large-point fonts, was SEVEN DEADLY SYMPTOMS YOU SHOULD NEVER IGNORE!!! Ignoring them was precisely what I endeavored to do; after finally managing to wean myself off self-diagnosis websites and the habit of comparing my skin with Google image results of “mole + melanoma,” Dr. Oz was the last thing I needed. I didn’t want to break my stride to switch the channels on the televisions, so from the remaining options of NFL highlights or Fox, I chose the latter. After all, it’s always good to check in with the propaganda machine of the enemy.

And what a machine it is! Luckily, the machine I was running on was just as robust or the pace I reached as my anger mounted might have proved too much for the poor thing. During the general election in the UK, I frequently felt that sound-bites and slogans had taken the place of genuine commentary – everyone interviewed seemed to be playing Madlibs with the same set of phrases: “fairness,” “value for money,” “out of touch,” and so on. Fox News is even worse. On a “news” report discussing the performance of American students in math and science as compared to students in Asia, the anchor asked the education reporter a series of questions such as “how are we gonna turn this ship around?” which seemed as if their chief merit lay in their universal application to any issue. The economy? Health care? The intractability of Congress? Someone call the Navy, because that’s a heck of a lot of ships to turn around.

Along with the lazy rhetoric, there’s the syntax and the pronunciation. (I think it's catching; even writing about it is making me employ more exclamation marks and capital letters than usual.) Since when is Guantanamo Bay “Gitmo”?! Who introduces a guest like this: “Being that you’ve served on numerous Congressional committees…” Being that?! How clunky can you possibly get? And why do all Fox News anchors, reporters and guests, regardless of regional accent, universally leave the final -g off words ending in –ing? “Well, we’re receivin’ new information from AP and I know you’re gonna be workin’ on that throughout the day, so we’ll be keepin’ you up to date as things develop…” There must be a Fox News pronunciation bureau, a folksy Mr. Hyde to the Dr. Jekyll of the BBC pronunciation bureau (which, despite its imperialistic attitude towards foreign words, does not, to its credit, encourage all employees to sound like the cast of The Archers!). Speaking of the BBC, writers satirizing the American media on The Now Show and News Quiz better watch out – the stuff Fox itself actually comes up with is better than any parody.

Take this, for example.

The last segment I watched featured an interview with Wikileaks founder Julian Assange’s stepfather. The Fox anchor said that this would provide insight into Assange’s character. I’ve tried unsuccessfully to find a link to this conversation online, but when asked to describe his stepson, the man said something along these lines: “Julian always stuck up for the underdog at school. He was always upset at people ganging up on weak people.” Following this pre-recorded revelation, the camera panned back to the anchor, who repeated, “ALWAYS upset at people!” before cutting to commercial. Dear god. It’s like nineteenth century theatrical melodrama, only people base their lives and votes on it. I’m writing about communism and censorship at the moment, and while the repression of free speech is deplorable, so too is the proliferation of ignorance masquerading the name of information. At what point does such profound misrepresentation of the facts constitute a crime against democracy? How can the First Amendment and “rogue” news outlets coexist?

I don’t know the answers to these questions. I do know, however, that from now on, I shall be going to the gym with iPod fully charged and stocked with NPR podcasts.

A room of one’s own; or, I hate hostels

Before I get on to the main topic of this post (the nature of which you can probably guess from its none-too-subtle title), I would like to apologize for the disruption to this blog, which has been caused by yet another international house move. Specifically, the flat in Prague was for sale sans tenants, so we had to skedaddle, as a result of which I am likely to be in Warsaw rather more than expected, so stayed tuned for more Polish-themed posts. Lest anyone remember that I'm actually meant to be in Prague working on my PhD, fear not! That's still happening (in fact, I'm in Prague now) and I'll have a permanent place sorted out from January. In the interim, though, accommodation is an on-going problem to be solved, which brings me to today's topic…Hostelling.

I am making something of a brash statement with this post – after all, I've stayed in quite a few hostels in my day, in a variety of contexts, and I've mostly pretended (even to myself) that I both like them and find them meaningful, in the same way one speaks of summer camp, as something you have to experience. I do this out of the same combination of guilt and peer pressure that made my teen-aged self agree (on more than one occasion) to accompany friends on trips to the local amusement park because it's-fun-and-everyone-likes-it. It may be that another trip to Hersheypark awaits me, and I may well spend another night in a hostel, but that doesn't negate the value of honesty. Therefore, let it be known that, along with inverted rollercoasters (especially this one), I have a significant antipathy towards hostels.

It's not their frequently Spartan nature that I object too. Not all accommodation needs to be luxurious and, along with stints in boutique hotels and the occasional five-star, I've had lovely stays in very basic pensions and guest houses, as well as a variety of two- and three-star hotels in locations from Croatia to Montmartre. What bothers me most about hostels is their meanness, particularly the stinginess with which they mete out their measly services. Hostels are Ryanair translated to the hospitality industry. Ages ago, I read this article discussing results from at 2006 J. P. Morgan survey of hotel guests which show that said guests prefer paying for their accommodation in one lump sum, to being constantly badgered to fork over for yet another a la carte option that feels like its necessity should go without saying. This is true even if that single payment in larger than the totaled side dish options.

The classic example of this in the hostelling is the towel. The hostel in which I'm currently staying (I'm not going to name names, as it's not a bad place and they're all the same when it comes to this stuff) charges 200 Czech crowns (roughly £7.50) as a deposit for a towel. Why is this necessary? As checkout time is 11am, and presumably I'm going to shower before I leave, what could possibly induce me to jam a soggy towel into my suitcase? If I was okay with that, I'd probably have brought my own towel anyway. As for the deposit – I get it back when I leave, of course, provided that I produce the receipt I was given, along with the towel in question. Why is the receipt necessary? Surely the towel itself is a sufficient proof of purchase. Does the hostel staff need the receipt because they fear that, along with Let's Go Eastern Europe 2010, I may have a commercial embroidery machine crammed into my Ryanair-surcharge-proof carry-on suitcase, which I have brought along for the express purpose of embossing the hostel's logo to produce four replicas of the towel I've actually borrowed, in order to collect a whopping 1000kc at checkout? Highly unlikely, particularly given that the enforcement of "quiet time" between 10pm-6am would render such a noisy activity highly impractical. Which brings me back to my original question – why is any of this necessary? How is a business model that tracks such an absurdly obvious amenity as towels to this degree at all functional, let alone a good idea?!

At odds with such petty meanness and the distrust it implies, is the back-packer allure of hostels. Why stay in a cold, corporatized hotel when you can share a room with six strangers, do your own laundry and learn about the world? While this is lovely in theory, I find it's not often so in practice. Someone always snores, someone's on a work trip and there's usually a pair of girls partying their way across Europe. Or if it's fine in the room, then there are no cups available for actually drinking the free (cheap) tea, the wi-fi doesn't work, or there's no quiet place to receive a phone call or use skype. I experienced this last situation last night. I solved it by wandering outside to take my call (sssshhh!!!) while pondering the paradoxical fact that while there was nowhere inside that I could talk on the phone, there was ample space for a loud (and detailed) conversation on the topic of menstruation and getting/falling pregnant. How? Why?

While hostels undoubtedly perplex me, those two questions could also be applied to my decision, given my feelings, to stay in one. This time, the choice was motivated by a variety of factors – when booking, I reflected that none of the Prague hotels I've stayed in have been that great, so why pay nice-hotel prices for accommodation that wasn't particularly so? Also, and this is perhaps the stronger reason, I felt, I'll admit, the siren backpacker song (sans backpack, in my case). I wondered if I was getting too old and set in my ways – why does someone my age need to stay in a hotel anyway? Am I really so far along the autistic spectrum that I can't handle three nights in a room with other twenty-something females? The answer to this question is that while I can, this doesn't necessarily mean I should. In fact, Mr P (after my rant regarding the lack of tea cups) has already made me promise that I will stay in a hotel the next time. All of which, taken together, makes me wonder if my frustration might somehow be parlayed into a business venture: A Room of One's Own: the budget hotels for post-grad students. The concept would be quite simple: the titular promise, with wi-fi, coffee/tea, cup and (most importantly) towel included.

On geographic reconciliation…

One of my most recurring analogies is the similarity of city-human relationships to human-human relationships. In the past I've spoken of my relationship with London as akin to the kind of rapport you have with a colleague you don't particularly like but who, after months of working together (and possibly threatening to quit a few times), you grudgingly come to respect. If the past few months in Prague have prompted me to realize what the Big Smoke has to offer, I have endeavored to remain aloof and unemotional in my appraisal; romanticizing ex-cities cities is a bit like staying hung up on ex-lovers: it makes it quite difficult to a) move on or b) appreciate the here, now, today-ness of life.

That being said, on my current (and it's still on-going, so this subject to change) trip to London, the city has acted like a previously disloyal, but now apologetic lover bent on winning me back. Gone is the professional courtesy, the grudging acknowledgement that I exist. By London standards, the past few days have been a positive lovefest of pleasures, overt, covert and overheard. Here, at the risk of being uncritical and (dare I say it?) positive, are some highlights of abnormal niceness.

• It's evening and I land at Luton, terrified of going through passport control sans UK visa and UK partner. Also have vision of epic, snaking queues, against the likelihood of which I've stocked up on Wizz Air Bake Rolls. In the end, no need for angst – a lovely man resembling Ghandi stamps my passport with nary a suspicious look and I am through in five minutes. My bag is the first one I see as I enter reclaim and I am out of the airport in twenty minutes, surely a Luton world record.
  
• On the train/underground, en route to my friend's house, three separate men volunteer to lift/carry my bag.
  
• In St. Pancras, I stop to buy a bottle of wine at M&S and I am carded by the cashier who also offers to throw away the empty Diet Coke bottle I am carrying and tells me to have a nice day.
  
• Standing on the platform waiting for the Jubilee Line, I observe an elderly couple (think early-mid eighties) standing on the platform, loving discussing the fact that they "should like to see that exhibition" (Diaghilev & The Ballet Russes at the V&A). Have lovely, dreamy moment thinking how nice it is to retire in a city, where one can continue to do such things and get about by public transport rather than being stranded, unable to drive, in the middle of suburban hell. Briefly imagine myself and Mr P as a spry octogenarians, gallery hopping in 2065.
  
• Getting lost between Swiss Cottage and my friend's house, someone asks me if I'm lost and endeavors to point me the right way, again without my asking for help.
  
• A rather posh old lady at the Starbucks on Haverstock Hill admires my art deco ring. I notice it is shining abnormally brightly despite my lackadaisical attitude towards cleaning it, which I chose to interpret as a positive omen.
  
• It's sunny, sit-outside-in-a-sleeveless-dress warm, and it's October.
  
• I get a £2 coin that I've not seen before - the one with Darwin in profile facing a chimp - and think that if such a coin were minted in the States, entire Congressional districts would probably refuse to spend it. It seems an emblem of rationality.

Add to this a series of lovely and much needed coffees, brunches, dinners and lunches with friends and you have a very pleasant 96 hours. Of course there has been some profound oddness as well – such as the strange man on the tube Saturday morning who asked if my tights (grey lacey fishnets) were "spider webs" and informed that I was "really making quite a fashion statement, you know?" (fishnets, boots and a uniqlo skirt - daring!) before asking probing questions about my nationality. My favorite brunch spot has closed, to be replaced by some blasphemous attempt at an "Italian American Diner." (Aren't all vaguely ethnic diners in the US Greek?) Then there was a humiliating and upsetting scene on the Baker Street tube, which consisted of a (presumably drunk) man berating his (also drunk) girlfriend in front of the entire station, in one of the most horrifying displays of public misogyny I have ever encountered. However there's also been the palpable sense of delight I've felt at blending back into London's diversity after largely mono-ethnic Prague, where seeing two little girls of different ethnicities, in matching school uniforms, sitting on the bus, sharing a set of headphones and listening to one iPod makes me feel that there are some very important things which this city, despite its inhuman scale and occasional coldness, has gotten very, very right.