Sunday was the penultimate day of work. I got up at nine, missed breakfast and went for a run. When I came back I cleaned out my room and went to the pool, taking my working clothes with me. By the pool I found Gilbert, who was enjoying the morning sun. As I was approaching the reclining chair he pointed to something behind him. I followed his fingertip with my eyes and saw that above us, up on the terrace, mass was starting. So there we were, two guys in bathing suits, listening to the music of the Church, which for some reason, bore a striking similarity to gospel?
When I arrived at work, only five minutes late for a change, it was as if an inox-bomb had gone off in the kitchen. Everywhere I looked there were pots and pans and greasy grills and bain-maries. I didn't know where to look let alone move around in all that chaos. I spent four hours (instead of the usual three) working to get the job done. Worst part is, every five minutes it seemed, the kitchen chef came in and gave me something else to do: "Don't forget to scrub the barbeque!", "Can you wash these plates too?", "They need you to get started in the restaurant already." And after everything was scrubbed clean - sort of, I still had to mop the entire kitchen. Of course, I did this quite hastingly, splashing water over the floor and just casually shoving it into the gutter, creating little islands of dirt and soup above the grates.
So, that was my Sunday. Working harder than I ever did, but I was glad it was over. Now I have Monday to look forward to and Tuesday, day of departure. I'm actually kinda relieved this trip is almost over.
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