been all day walking and feet are starting to complain about the simple process of sending me intermittent pain stings. As I know that if I do not know if it will be worse and end up raising blisters so I feel a bit in a park. It's cold, and humid, but happy. Like London in the autumn. I kicked two markets and have found amazing things. My mother does not support the idea that buying in second hand markets, mostly clothing, but I'm fascinated by the possibility of browsing through the stacks where all you find are unpredictable. I'm going to eat at the restaurant where she works Beatriz. It is an Italian restaurant. Let me address this morning, along with a small completely level, so I arrived without problems. There are plenty of empty tables because even though I arrived before the English lunchtime, it is too late for the British. Beatrice is beautiful with the white uniform and long apron, black. I recommended a few things and tell you better bring me what she believes. The pasta is good, tasty and abundant, white wine, dry as I like, is fresh, the bread is still warm. Enter a group of six English. They sit in the Beatrice area, and brings the letters. I can not help listening. None of them speak English and for them the letters are indecipherable. Beatrice is at your side and asked in English if they know what they're going to take. They say "Guaita Guaita" while pointing the various dishes with air question. Beatrice explains, also in English, leading each dish and they are increasingly confused. I get up and approach. I wonder if they need help and I look as if they had appeared the Virgin. I wonder if I can translate the letter and tell them to calm, which makes it the waitress. I look at my sister, who sighs and explains the letter plate by plate while face looks at me with annoyance aware that there has been no tip.
