When You Don't Have Time to Write...

With three kids it feels like a full-time job just keeping passports and vaccinations up to date... so just pictures.

Nicknames

Since we haven't yet decided how to pronounce our son's name (i.e., Jonas or Yonas), we avoid using his name and refer to him with a variety of nicknames, including:

Sweet Ness Monster

Stinky

Bobble Head

Mr. Happy Pants

Sweet Poo (OK, Ralf doesn't actually call him this)

Blow Out Boy

Sir

Spring is officially on its way! Since I already wrote the definitive post on Spring I have nothing more to say.

What is Down with Our Bad Selves?

I thought K was a big eater with her fierce feeds every two hours on the hour but J makes her look like a lightweight. I've never had a baby that eats so much! Mind you, I've also never had a baby that can pee on its own head so even a mother of three can learn something new.

Have I mentioned he's lovely?

Naturally we've chosen this time to do some major home construction in the living and dining rooms, including re-plastering the walls and hanging molding.

To make matters more hectic, we decided to go with a cheaper contractor, who announced he didn't feel comfortable hanging real clay molding after he'd already torn up the living room. So we had to go crawling back to the expensive guy and beg him to come while all our furniture was still under plastic.

He was actually quite nice about it, in a sardonic way. When Ralf poked his head in the shop he was greeted with: 'Your guy can't hang it, can he?'

Ralf admitted this was the case. He also expressed some doubts about the molding we'd chosen, as it looked awfully big for the room when we held it up.

'Scared of a little molding, huh?' the interior designer asked amiably.

'Actually, I'm scared of my wife,' retorted Ralf with dignity.

'Aren't we all?' (This, of course, was a reflexive question and didn't require an answer.)

Then he offered to divert two of his workmen to hang the molding, which was very decent of him, and the final painting is happening right now. . . only the first guy's doing that so it's been a crazy week of rotating workmen.

But it's almost done...

I'll try to post pictures next week.

Happy Holidays!

Happy holidays to all you wonderful bloggers who generously share my life while working, raising families and finding your way in the world. Together we are stronger.

Happy holidays to Renee, who has successfully lived without a roof over her head for years. I hope the new laptop will be useful in the new year and inspire you to new great things.

Happy holidays to my wonderful Grandma, who had such fun visiting Munich several Christmases ago and could still sing the Hansel and Gretal opera in German and (for some reason) the French national anthem.

Happy holidays to Laura, Emmanuelle and Abu, our three sponsored children in Africa and Bolivia. I hope you have a wonderful Christmas season and continue to do well in school next year.

Happy holidays to the amazing working moms I know and am proud to be friends with. (And all moms are working.)

Happy holidays to my two little girls, whose names mean 'Clarity of Purpose' and 'Enduring Light.' You are both perfectly named.

Happy holidays to my little man, who I can't wait to meet. Your name (after we considered hundreds of names, such as Dave, Gerhard, Logan, Hasso, etc.) means either 'Bringer of Peace' or 'Destroyer,' depending on whether one is feeling more Yiddish or Hebrew. I imagine there will be days when either name suits you, my darling boy.

Happy holidays to my fabulous husband, whose eyes light up with admiration and love when he looks at my perfectly round tummy and who makes up such amazing children's stories. He even liked his Land's End pajamas, although he fears the extreme softness of the flannel will make him weak.

(We finished our children's book and if anyone would like a copy leave a comment with an email address.)

Happy holidays!

No Dublin for Me This Year...

I'm fond of the Irish.  I mean, sure, I know some irritating Irish people but in general I like the way they talk, I like how they always bring a book of gloomy poetry as a housewarming gift and I appreciate the seriousness with which they regard breakfast.

I've liked people for far less.

That's why I'm rather bummed to miss the European office party in Dublin this year - I'm too big to fly - so Ralf will be partying, breakfasting, chatting up Rory and Fergus and touring the Guinness factory on his own this year.

It's not that I don't love having kids but next time I call dibs on being the dad...!

Homunculus Domesticus Americanus

Nothing says Christmas like online shopping so while Ralf was in California I ordered him some soft shearling slippers and a pair of monogrammed PJs from Land's End. 

Then I had a dilemma - you have 14 days to return items but it was more than 14 days to Christmas. 

I had no choice: I had to get him to try it all on.

First the PJs, which he stared at silently before observing glumly, 'It's monogrammed.  You can't send it back anyway.'

Good point.  I re-wrapped the PJs and pulled out the slippers, which he stared at even more silently.

'You don't like them?' I prompted.

'I, ah, wouldn't have picked them out for myself,' he admitted.  His eyes tracked longingly to his beloved tatty old house shoes.

'Why not?' I demanded.  'They're nice!'

'I'll look like a domesticated American man in those things,' he muttered. 

Well, he had a point.  A girl can dream, can't she?  I mean, if I can wear a Dirndl, he can suck it up and wear Land's End liesure wear.

But... long story short, I kept the PJs and sent the slippers back.  Baby steps.

While in California he received an iPad from our CEO in recognition of his hard work.  K and L were highly excited about this, since the iPad games include a farting cat.  They usually resent his long hours, but as soon as they understood that the iPad was his reward for said long hours L (5) shoved him toward his office and K (7) told him to try and earn us a Wii next time.

Oh, and a belated Happy Thanksgiving - heading into 9 months and my tummy's bigger than the turkey!

This is what I've accomplished today

After a crazy work week - I haven't yet mentioned to my new boss that I'm part-time - I'm between projects, i.e., several big projects are either wrapped up, haven't started yet or are finished but awaiting input.

So... I'm working on a collection of short stories. The stories were invented by Ralf as bedtime stories. The girls each get to choose two story elements, which he then has to weave in. I apply my amazing writing skills and scan in pictures my girls have drawn that fit each story. In the end we will hopefully have a book, which the girls will get for Christmas.

Some of you may recall The Adventures of Tom, Pin Pin and Suzi, which also appears in the collection.

Unfortunately, I have writer's block. This is what I've accomplished so far today:

You want to call him WHAT???

Me: Honey, I have the perfect name!

Ralf leans back in his chair and regards me warily across seven years of blissful matrimony.

Me: Gerhardt! Isn’t that a great name?

A pause during which several expressions cross his face, followed by no expression at all.

Ralf: You want to name our son Gerhard?

I nod.

Ralf: Gerhard Schroeder.

Me: Uh huh. I like that name.

Ralf: As in the former German Chancellor?

Me (frowning): Well…. yeah. Why not? He was a good Chancellor.

Ralf: Why don’t you just name him Elvis Presley?

Me (primly): It’s not at all the same thing. People have heard of Elvis.

Ralf: Or Barrack Obama?

Me (rolling my eyes): Way more people have heard of him, too.

Ralf: Yeah, in… He struggles to come up with a suitably obscure location. Texas! THIS IS GERMANY!!!

Me: Hey, what about Tex?

No response besides a slight widening of the nostrils.

Me (regrouping): Anyway, I want to spell it with a ‘t’ at the end, so it’s not even the same name.

Ralf: I refuse to discuss this.

That means he feels strongly about it.

Me (in a wheedling voice): We could call him Gary. Or Hardy. No one would need to know.

Ralf: Go now. Buy a fish. Name it Gerhard or Geronimo or whatever you need to get out of your system.

Me (parting shot): It’s not like I want to name him George Bush!

Sheesh. I guess we’ll have to call him Deke or Garbanzo after all.

My Big Man and My Little Man

My little man is growing and kicking up a storm but until my next doctor visit I probably won't have any news about him.  I'm growing, too, and people no longer tell me I look exactly like Kate Moss.

I miss that.

If the baby had been a girl I would have named her Annika but her surprise sex change has left us struggling for a male name that both Germans and Americans can pronounce and doesn't sound too Biblical.

For example, my favorite name Ethan is pronounced 'Ay-tan' here, which is stupid.  Ditto with other names I like: Justin = 'yoo-steen.'  Jason = 'ya-zon.'

My favorite German names have been overruled by Ralf, who assures me no self-respecting German would gives these names to a child: Markus, Dieter, Johann.

Cool international names such as Iago and Merrik have been overruled on similar grounds.

Other names we're I'm considering: Starbuck, Annikin, Meriadoc, Vlad, Iorich, Albus and Saturn.

But now a call out to my big man, who thinks I'm beautiful (or is at least wise enough to pretend he does) and says all the right things, for example:

When I was worried about cosmic radiation from flying: "The gummy bear needs to man up."

When I was worried about bringing another person into a crowded, depleted, irresponsible world: "Don't worry, this one will be the one who saves us all."

When I tied a jaunty ribbon around my middle: "That looks completely st... great!"

When I tried a new recipe: "Figs. With cheese." A pause. "Yum."

Isn't he wonderful? :-)

Anatomy of a Birthday

• A batch of pink cupcakes for K's birthday.
• A batch of chocolate chip cupcakes and a chocolate cake to take to school.
• A sour cream chocolate cake with chocolate icing and smarties and a batch of pink and blue cupcakes for the birthday party.
• A cheesecake and chocolate chip cupcakes for Sunday coffee with friends.
• A flourless chocolate cake for the parent's association.

That's pretty much been my week. Oh, and the birthday party itself, which was yesterday.

The invited kids were a mixed bunch of different ages and genders, so we needed a variety of program points.

Ralf was worried that the children would not follow the program.

I shrugged. 'So we'll crank up the music and toss in a bag of chips.'

I never worry about stuff like that. My worries are much more abstract.

We started with snacks and music, which the girls danced to on the table while the boys hid behind the book shelf.

Then, for the little ones we played 'bang the pot', which is where you blindfold a child, give them a spoon and send them tapping around on the floor while the other kids yell, 'Warm! Cold!' until they bang the pot. They get to eat the sweet that is under the pot.

The big girls sat in the corner during this, nonplussed, while the boys ran up and down the stairs.

Then we set up a 'beauty corner' and the big girls were roped in to put make up on the little girls. At the same time, we gave everyone a new t-shirt and invited the to decorate them with specially ordered iron on decals.

This won over big and small girls alike but the boys were still bored.

Next Ralf took all the kids outside for relay races and ran them mercilessly for about an hour while I ironed on the fiddly decals. I hated to miss the games but could hear how much fun they were having. Ralf may have missed his calling as a camp councilor or little league coach.

The girls kicked the boys' butts.

After this we had cake and presents and then the parents came to collect their worn out, t-shirt sporting offspring.

Whew - one birthday down, the next one in less than two months...

I'm the only man in Germany...

Recently Ralf and I had a minor argument about the division of household duties. We both work - although he works more - and we both have evening calls with California. He generally takes the kids to childcare and I pick them up, drive them to gymnastics, play with them, finish up any homework, feed them and put them to bed. I do all the shopping and most of the cooking and regular doctor's appointments.

I also supervise our maid, which Ralf never helps out with.

Ralf handles all 'projects', such as the garden, garage and bathroom fixtures, as well as interfacing with any Bavarian handymen. He also bathes the kids about once a week, files our taxes and insurance claims and plans our vacations.

Our kids aren't very clean.

Some of the things I used to do in the US now fall to him because they either require more boyish charm or knowledge of German bureacracy than I have or more patience than I can muster without my head exploding.

Things recently came to a head when it was time to buy K's school supplies. We got a list from the teacher and you know how the Eskimos have 13 words for snow? Well, those wacky seal-fur wearing nomads with their frozen water obsession don't have a patch on the Germans, who have about 51 words for 'notebook.'

To make a long story short, I delegated the procurement of school supplies to Ralf.

I suppose as a married man with a wife known not to be in a wheelchair or hospital, Ralf may have lost some face doing women's work like buying school supplies. Which he then grumbled about at home.

Ralf: I'm pretty sure I'm the only man in Germany who isn't divorced or widowed that has to go buy school supplies for their kids.

Me: Really? That's probably why most of the German men we know are divorced.

Actually, that's not fair. Although there are a number of single dads at our Kindergarten, two are widowed, and none of our married friends are divorced yet.

Then we had our recurring, 'You want me to buy school supplies, let's move back to California' discussion while I was making dinner.

Now, of course, I can make fun of Ralf for just about anything. For example:

"I'm the only man in Germany who has to put the toilet seat down!"

"I'm the only man in Germany who has to put dirty clothes in the laundry basket!"

"I'm the only man in Germany who has to carry his dishes to the kitchen!"

You get the idea.

I've Been a Mom for 7 Years

Hello! We're back from vacation. I had some work to catch up on and it took a few days to download the pictures but now I have my ducks in a row.

But first, happy birthday to my wonderful 7-year-old daughter K. I felt deeply connected to her the minute she was born and she is exactly the child I expected to have with Ralf - tall, smart, competent, impatient and determined. She's all alpha and we couldn't be more proud.

Happy birthday, baby girl!

In contrast, the constant senseless joy and playfulness radiated by our youngest child raises certain genetic questions. We adore L heart and soul but neither of us is sure how we got her.

And now some vacation pictures from the Italian alps and Lanzarote in the Canary Islands.

There'll Be No Cake in Hell!

Ooops - I accidentally published my latest post on my other blog: There'll Be No Cake in Hell!

Birthday Playlist

Today is my 37th birthday. Well, somewhere on the time continuum.

Last night Ralf and I had a date night, which has been months in the organizing given our (mainly his) work schedules. Unfortunately it was about 100 degrees in the restaurant but still good.

This morning my children woke me with about twenty rousing rounds of Happy Birthday while Ralf was out buying cake and flowers. Then we had my 2nd favorite breakfast, which is cake - my 1st favorite breakfast is chicken curry.

Then I got my presents: pictures from the girls, a check from my grandma and a spa gift certificate and CD from Ralf.

I get a home-burned CD every year for my birthday, which should tell you how easy to please and low maintenance I am. All year when I hear a song I like on the radio I write it down in an email to myself, then I send Ralf the list and he procurs the songs and burns them on a CD for me.

Sometimes he tries to put his foot down:

Ralf: Maneater? No way! That's Nelly Furtado's lamest song.

Me: It's her BEST song. I want it.

Ralf: OK, but I'm not listening to it in the car.

Or:

Ralf: If you really want The Unforgiven we should get the Metallica version. It's way better.

Me: No way, Jose - I want the chick version. Metallica's stupid.

Offended silence.

In the end I got everything I wanted except Lady Gaga, which I'm sure is an oversight.

Next we played the CD while spring cleaning in preparation for friends visiting from the US this week. One thing this family knows how to do is party!

Then Ralf took the girls to Baumarkt so I could catch up on my blogging.

A fine birthday.

Some favorite lines from my birthday playlist - see if you can name the song:

Control yourself, take only what you need.
This power needs some room to grow.
Believe me when I say, today's your lucky day.
If you like it why don't you put a ring on it?
You don't know anything 'bout me.
I'm bringing sexy back.
Viva Las Vegas!
Dance, F#!*er, dance!

And here's the playlist:

Soccer Mom - Not

Last night Ralf went to watch the big Spain-Germany game at a friend's house while I stayed home and watched Glee. He came home later looking pretty low.

Now let me just mention here that I haven't been following the World Cup at all. During the first week I had to keep asking which tournament it was again so Ralf took to sprinkling his public comments about the world cup with verbal cues for me so I wouldn't embarass him.

Eventually it sunk in. World Cup: check. Germany playing: check. German flags on cars everywhere: related to World Cup.

Generally speaking, I've been very supportive, even when Ralf watched some big game last Saturday instead of picking me up at the airport. And I bought trading cards for our daughters, who can name all the team captains.

Anyway, professional sports aren't really my thing but I wanted Germany to win. I mean, it's nice to see the Germans excited about something. Plus I like black uniforms.

So, as I was saying, Ralf came in looking pretty bummed and I'm very caring and empathic so I paused Glee and asked him who won.

Ralf (curtly): Spain.

Me: Well, they're nice. Who lost?

Ralf (in disgust): You're kidding, right?

Me: Um... Germany? Wait - does this mean Germany doesn't get to play in the final game?

No answer, just a head shake.

Me: Do you want to talk about it?

Ralf (struggling to find to find the right words): Not with you!

Me: What? I'm trying to be supportive.

Ralf (heading up the stairs): Don't try.

Me: You could have married a German, you know! Or a MAN!!

Ralf (morosely): I know. Good night.

On event horizons and being the last person in Munich

K: Mommy, where does the Earth end?

Me (sagely - this is an easy one): The earth is round, darling. It doesn't end.

K: Yes it does. I'll show you.

She fetches a small ball.

K: Now look, Mommy. (She finger walks around the ball.) If I go around the ball like this it never ends. But. (She holds up one finger to make sure I'm paying attention.) If I go this way it ends right where it begins. (Her fingers leave the surface of the ball in the direction of infinity.) See?

Wow. It's true - the Earth does end at its surface. I stare at my 6-year-old, thinking that she can already think in 3D and has just discovered event horizons. In a flash I picture presenting to the Acadamy of Physics, tall, blond, precise, wowing an audience of unkempt men in tweed suits. I feel a thrill of pride.

Although part of me would like my children to pursue useful careers like accounting or medicine (useful to me, I mean), another part would be thrilled to be the mother of this generation's Einstein.

Science camp here we come.

BTW, Ralf is gone.

No, not forever, just a long work week in California. It's vacation time and my girls and I are the last people in Munich. But we are not alone - we are feeding the neighbors' pets while they enjoy their family vacations.

K already gave the rabbits 2 week's worth of carrots, which they have consumed. They eye me hopefully when I go in the garden but I have nothing for them.

The shops won't be open until Tuesday, I tell them, showing them my empty hands.

They twitch their noses to tell me they understand perfectly and would I now please bring them some more carrots.

Yes, of course, on Tuesday, I answer.

I think the isolation is getting to me...

Man Up and Make a Plan

I know I've been a bit spotty lately on blogging but there are reasons. The main reason is that I just started a new job and at the same time I've been taking two classes: one in business German, which is fortunately over, and a certificate program in Talent Management at Cornell university.

Cool, huh? Soon I will have a piece of paper that says Cornell on it.

The German class was pretty easy, since my German is mind-blowingly good (just kidding- it's decent) but the whole thing with commute took about 8 hours a week. The Cornell program takes about 4 hours a week. And then, of course, I have a new job. And kids. And a house. And a cat. And three hermit crabs.

And of course I have to make all these new avatars of myself. So, I've been kind of busy.

Last year wasn't much fun, what with late night calls and a rough situation at work. I was feeling almost sorry for myself until Ralf told me to man up and make a plan.

Man up this, I said:

Ralf was intrigued by this response but didn't quite see the relevance.

So I made a fine plan to get a Ph.D. in organizational behavior or cognitive science while perfecting my roundhouse kick.

Ralf suggested I try to come up with a more practical and lucrative plan.

Feeling slightly aggrieved that he didn't want to move the entire family to the East Coast and pay for me to explore my inner Dr. Laura, I updated my resume and applied for various paid jobs.

I usually apply for one job at a time because I usually get the job and I hate saying no. This isn't quite as cocky as it sounds because I research and apply for jobs I have an excellent chance of getting.

That makes it sound easy but it's not. In fact, I'm glossing over months of hard work and a helping hand from some good friends.

And it's not like finding a job is a ticket to happiness. I've had tough work experiences: I've been fired and re-organized and offered jobs that disappeared after I accepted. I've worked very long hours for very little money. I've had bosses that didn't take me seriously or whose sole purpose in life was to grind me into dust. Etc., etc., etc.

(I've had good jobs, too.)

Plus, as a mom of two small kids living in Munich and working for Californian companies I'm. . . well, I tell people I'm the modern worker.

Anyway, over the last 6 months I applied for about ten jobs, just to see what fetched up.

In the end I had to choose between several offers, which meant figuring out trade offs, such as, Can I work from home? Do I have to wear a suit? Will I have to travel? Will I be on the phone every night? Is this a completely new role for me that will require 80 hour weeks for the first 6 months? Am I willilng to relocate? Is this a lateral move or a career step? Can I learn anything from my boss? Where do I want to be in 5 years?

Of course, for my ideal job, I'd relocate, wear a suit, commute, travel or eat mushy bananas but none of them was quite ideal.

One of the options we considered involved moving back to the US, which was tempting. Munich's a nice city but it isn't home. The biggest problem is language, and I'm not just talking about embarassing mistakes like that time I said 'I will throw up on you soon,' instead of, 'Let's discuss this later.' It's a LOT of work to function as an adult in a second language.

But... it wasn't the right time.

So anyway, after all that marvelous self contemplation and a chance to do something completely different I opted for a similar type of job at the same company.

Also, I now devote 10 minutes a day to manning up.

What are you afraid of?

Although I try not to give my fears a front seat when it comes to living my life, I'm afraid of lots of things: I'm afraid for my kids. I'm afraid of cancer. I'm afraid of flying. I'm afraid of spiders. I'm afraid of car accidents. I'm afraid of what we're doing to the environment. I'm afraid of collapsing financial systems. I'm afraid my money will vanish mysteriously or be stolen. I'm afraid I'll someone will hide drugs in my luggage and I'll live out my life in a 3rd world prison. I'm afraid of wrinkles. I'm afraid of depending on other people. I'm afraid of losing my passport. I'm afraid I'll be the first person to get AIDS from a mosquito. I'm afraid of running out of coffee. I'm afraid of scary movies. I'm afraid of legal documents.

So, the usual things.

Just for the record, I'm NOT afraid of snakes, rodents, cockroaches, crazy deadlines, math, bitchy women, people who yell, being laughed at or standing up in front of hundreds of people. And I can drive a stick shift.

Ralf isn't afraid of too many things. Why should he be? He has a strong physical presence, a military haircut, loads of boyish charm and no shortage of self-confidence. He's also a rescue diver, which means he doesn't require immediate access to oxygen to survive under water and won't freak out if he temporarily doesn't have any. Plus he thinks people are basically good - even when they prove otherwise he assumes they're stupid rather than evil and would definitely do the right thing if they weren't handicapped by their inferior brains. Basically, even if Scheisse happens, he's not expecting the world to throw him any curve balls he can't handle.

It must be nice to live in his world.

There is one thing he does fear, however, one thing that causes him to pale and break out in a nervous sweat:

Legal documents that need to be countersigned by me.

Yup. I can't blame him, really. It can get pretty darn scary when I need to sign something.

What are you afraid of?

Bedouins, Camels and Viagra

As some of you know, Ralf and I just got back from a week in Egypt, specifically in Sharm el Sheikh, which is a small beach community near the Sinai national park that is inhabited largely by Bedouins.

Sadly, no one got my 'Bedouin Breakfast' pun about our hotel. I tell you, my wit feels wasted sometimes.

Our favorite pasttime during the week was to sit in what we referred to as the 'Hooka Shack', a quiet beachfront shisha bar where you can sip Bedouin tea (black tea with lots of sugar in a little pot) and smoke an enormous water bong while reading and watching the waves.

We also went diving, although I had to give it up after the first day due to ear problems. It's sad, really. I am a Padi certified advanced diver. I have done night dives, retrieval dives, navigation dives, wreck dives, shore dives, boat dives and deep dives. I can take all my gear off (mask, oxygen, the works) 20 meters under water, swim away from it, swim back and put it all back on without panicking (much) and dying a horrible oxygen deprived death.

I don't enjoy doing these things, you understand, but I can.

Nonetheless I have an ongoing battle with my ears and usually have to stop diving and go to the doctor before the end of each vacation. You may be wondering how I got certified in the first place, to which I can only respond, 'Sheer bloodymindedness.'

Still, I didn't mind skipping it this time. What with one thing and another, I was happy not to dress up in a rubber suit and lug around a heavy oxygen tank. I carefully divided my vacation time between lounging about, snorkling, sipping tea, staring at the horizon, reading and visiting my friend Barbara, who is lucky enough to call the desert her home.

And now two tableaus from our vacation involving Bedouins, camels and Viagra - I know you're gonna jump right to the Viagra one:

Tableau 1: The Father In Law
One of the dive instructors was a friendly Bedouin fellow named Nur, who's married to the boss's daughter. After Ralf's first dive on the second day (I was on the boat but not diving) Nur got a radio call from Umbi, the boss and his FIL, to bring our boat out to Umbi's yacht during the lunch break. Apparently, Umbi had dropped something in the water and wanted Nur to dive for it. Nur rolled his eyes and muttered, 'It's probably a coffee spoon,' then slouched off to get suited up again. When we reached the yacht, Umbi waved at us good-naturedly and Ralf asked him if he always makes his poor SIL do extra work for him. Umbi grinned and answered, 'Nur was supposed to pay me 5 camels for my daughter and I haven't seen a single camel yet. He owes me!'

Tableau 2: The Viagra
After I visited the doctor and was told I would be fine in a week but would have to take a break from diving, we stopped by the pharmacy to get some medicine to speed up the re-absorbtion of the blood that had pooled behind my traumatized eardrums. Uh... TMI? Anyway, we got the medicine (everything for about $2, it's SOOO cheap!) and the pharmacist looked at me, looked at Ralf, grinned suggestively and handed him a free packet of Viagra. Ralf, not to be outdone, grinned back even more suggestively and returned the packet. I didn't quite catch what the pharmacist said as we left but it sounded a bit like, 'Strong man!'

Pictures here and here.

More Egypt Pictures - Story to Follow