My b&b is a quiet wood place amid a mass of flowering apple trees:
My room is big enough to get a cow in but not turn it around. I ask the landlady about the soap.
“No soap. Guests bring own soap.”
I worry about what kind of guests she usually has:
“Do all your guests carry around soap?”
She sniffs the air slightly:
Somewhere, I own at least 8 gray suits and 16 crisp white cotton shirts. But the woman looks at me doubtfully and gives me soap.
Nearby gardens, unkempt in the style of Monet, rife with tulips:
(events 19 May 2013)