Alessandro´s kitchen looked exactly like mine, or like Lucia´s, or like Hana´s. Or Malte´s. It bore the same dining table, the same overcrowded shelves, full of tins and cans, and the same oven that every week again would showcase an impressive display of grime and filth to be removed by hard-shrubbing cleaning ladies with loud voices and magic shrubbing devices (Jonathan loved chatting with them in his loud Bavarian English while they were at it, well-prepared as for any given fire drill with a cup of coffee, and flirting with them, laughing his Bavarian cannon shot). On the inside, Agnes Jones was Agnes Jones, wherever you roamed.
It was apparent that the international flock was bigger than I had believed it to be. Little Gracia from Brazil welcomed us by jumping on a chair and yelling for booze. We met Thomek from Poland, a tall handsome volleyball player, and one hell of a guy, who explained for me that Borat´s basic vocabulary was actually Polish. When I heard what he studied I believed Gaddafi´s son to be a student of the same subject, in Liverpool, which Thomek found interesting because that one time he had in fact talked with a Libyan guy, who got pretty angry when asked what life was like when ruled by a dictator. We laughed and wished Thomek a nice funeral.