Tuesday, April 10, 2012

“Why do I live in Alaska?” Walter asked himself, for the millionth time.  Slogging through the snowdrifts to and from work every day guaranteed that he began and ended his daily routine in a foul mood.  He longed for Rome.  Pierre, the French baker next to the hotel, used to set out bread first thing in the morning.  Walter would select the loaf with just the right amount of crispiness, and then a small brick of cheese, and eat them together on his way to the factory.  Sunshine every day, coupled with a cool breeze.  Beautiful women, nothing like the heavily clothed, shapeless, slush-sloggers here in Alaska.  Bicycle bells jingling as the delivery boys sped by...  “Why do I live in Alaska?”

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