homeless.

As of this morning, we don’t know where we are going next. People are renting the lodge we’re in now, and we don’t have a job lined up until Friday. I just talked to a guy named Mark about working on his pheasant farm and he had lots to say, but in a way where he said nothing at all.

“Well, Beth, let’s see. Tell me about your background.” I told him, but I am fairly certain I will not be directing alumni on the pheasant farm. I let him know we’re up for almost anything. (I don’t want to slaughter animals.)

“Beth, let’s sort this out. If there are three of you, and I need to have three beds…1…2…3…hm. 1…2…..3..1…2…3…” this went on for about four minutes. Really. I stopped him and said, “It’s OK” so he’d stop counting.

“Well, Beth, it might not suit you, as it doesn’t suit many, but this is more of an 8 hour gig than a 4 hour gig like most other work exchange.” Oh no, Mark, I quit my 8 hour gig to fly over to New Zealand to work 8 hours for only accommodation. Actually, if the work sounded good, we would take it. 

“Ok, Mark, what kind of work will be doing?”

“Oh gosh, Beth! All sorts. Hm. I don’t even know how to answer that. Crazy stuff, Beth!”

 

I hung up the phone and told the girls about the conversation.

“Well, we’re not only not going to be around our families or any other Americans for Thanksgiving, we’re also going to be homeless.”

“At least we have Nana,” said Kasey, speaking of our ’93 Toyota Carina.

“I wish our Nana could cook,” said Brittany, with a frown.

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