So, after great anticipation, I find myself on the first floor of a gorgeous red-brick college near the city centre. It is light, airy and refreshingly cool after the 25 degree C morning.
Our teacher is kind, fun and enthusiastic, and we are all making progress. At coffee break I try to avoid other native English speakers and hang-out with the African contingent.We had arrived back late the night before, which lead me to taking beetroot juice and leftover Lemon Drizzle as a break time snack. As the lads were puffing away I swigged form my beetroot juice and hoped no stray drops would stain my shirt.They are all sound chaps, and we are soon swapping stories under a tree in the car-park. Our faltering conversation, “Where are you from?” and “Where do you live now?” turns out to be a future echo of the second half of the morning.
From time to time our teacher embellishes the content with the odd explanation in French or Spanish, which doesn’t help me, or, more often, English, which doesn’t help anyone but me. However, I am sure that in time our skills will improve sufficiently and we can have a full lesson in German.
At home we still had little left in the fridge, so Yuri and I cooked tuna maki. I took it in to Anna, but she was so peaceful that Yuri and I delayed dinner by half an hour.