Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
I was sitting in my office in D.C. trying desperately to impose some semblance of order
on my work day, while wishing with all my heart that I could be in Vieques supervising
Freddy's efforts (with the occasional side visit to the beach).
“That's great!” I enthused, amping up my normal speaking voice in an attempt to match
his exuberance.
“It will be beautiful thing!” he almost screamed.
I held the phone away from my ear. But then he dropped his voice a decibel or two.
“And yet the tiles you bought, they no fit.”
I brought the phone in closer.
“Huh?”
“They strange size.”
Was it my imagination, or had Freddy's grasp of the English language deteriorated ap-
preciably since our last meeting? While I pondered this somewhat metaphysical question, I
forced myself to focus on what he was telling me.
“But they're standard six inch by six inch tiles,” I protested weakly. “I have the packing
slip right here on my desk.”
“Not all standard. Some bigger, some smaller.”
This made no sense. We had ripped open one of the boxes the day the tiles were de-
livered, and all of them had appeared to be exactly the same size.
“So you're saying that some of the tiles are bigger than six by six, and some smaller?”
.”
“What do the boxes say?”
We had checked the boxes ourselves, but who knew. A long pause ensued, during which
it sounded like Freddy was banging together a cabinet full of pots and pans while simultan-
eously dragging chains over a metal grating.
“Six by six, all of them,” he huffed.
“So the boxes are mislabeled.”
Evidentemente .”
“Can you cut the tiles to fit?”
Another long pause followed, punctuated by enough bangs and whistles to constitute a
Steve Reich concerto.
“I try,” he said at last. “But it cost more.”
Audible groan from my end.
“How much more?”
A very pregnant pause.
“A little,” he said unconvincingly. “Or maybe a lot.”
☼ ☼ ☼
Search WWH ::




Custom Search