I enjoy a natural environment.

I thought I would title this I enjoy silence, but it’s not really silence. I prefer the sounds of nature, animals, birds, wind, and ocean; to those of human cacophony. The sounds of arguing people, loud music from cars driving by, power tools, motors revving, car alarms, sirens, children screaming, anything angry or disjointed can too easily affect my mind's ability to filter my mood. Even lonely dogs barking are of human making.

I much prefer the sounds of the natural world, like birds. I like where my mind goes. Can I identify the bird just by the call? Can I see it in the trees? I enjoy the ocean. The sound of the waves and ocean breeze bring a calm to me that is necessary to my being. The wind through the leaves in the woods makes me listen. The wind off the ocean filtered by the needles of the Torrey Pines is pure magic; like a two-for-one prize. Then to look off in the distance to see the waves breaking, dolphins enjoying the surf, the endless horizon; this refreshes my soul, this restores my sanity, this gives me the peace I crave.

Ever since I watched the National Park series on PBS, I have a yearning to go see them. But as winter approaches, not such a good idea. Snow and I are not good acquaintances. Perhaps a jaunt to the local mountains or walk at the beach is in order. I need to cleanse my brain of the whirring, jarring, yelling, sounds of the city.

Opulence

We found the tiny club where Wassim would be playing that night. Nicholas met us on the street and was very pleased to see us again. We had witnessed the brilliance of both of their darbuka skills at the festival, their patient teaching style in the classes, and their kind friendship during our week in Biarritz. Nicholas would not be playing but was here for support. Lexi and Quinn, along with Quinn’s husband who had joined them for the next leg of journey, Lynda, Zabeth, Line, Bonnie and I piled into the back of the club. It was sweltering hot with only one small fan blowing what seemed like two drops of air around the small cube of a room. A few other folks were there, some to see the show, others patrons of the bar.

Wassim and his clarinet player had hooked up with an accordion player that evening. They started with a raucous Turkish Romany tune. They played another and another, until they were dripping wet in the heat. A few girls got up to dance in the tiny space in front of the stage. One girl was sort of doing Turkish dancing but mostly kept looking to see who was watching her. I decided she was the lost love child of Liz Strong and Paris Hilton.

Wassim was brilliant. I watched his hands fly on the darbuka. The accordion player was great, swaying from side to side as he pulled and mashed at the accordion. The clarinet player wailed out the tunes. One would have no idea that these guys had never player together before this night. A violin player showed up halfway through the set and sat in. On the last song, a guy with a giant bass asked if he could sing along. They decided on the rhythm Chiftetelli and this guy went into a rap song, in French, about Chiftetelli, made a play on words and by the end it was the Chef D’Italy. Frankly it was brilliant. Weird but totally fun.

At the end of the night, Wassim handed me this giant Syrian Bendir. Simply crafted of wood and goatskin with nylon strings across the head; it sounded amazing. Then he told me he wanted me to have it. He brought four of them to give to his favorite students but he wanted me to pick which one I wanted. I was floored. I knew Wassim was amazing but I think I fell in love with him that night.

The next day, Zabeth took us out to the Castle Fontainebleau. These are the grounds where the kings and queens of France lived until Louis XIV moved it all to Versailles in 1682. The title of this blog is opulence. This was my impression of Fontainebleau from the first moment. Not one wall was blank, not one piece of wood undecorated, not one stick of furniture was less than fabulous; this whole place was the epitome of excess. I’ve seen castles and royal houses in England, the riches of the Ottoman Empire, and the seats of power in America; but perhaps to have it all in one place, set out like this bordered on the grotesque. Zabeth told us that Versailles is ten times what we were seeing here. No wonder the peasants revolted.

The painting and the sculptures were amazing. Some, like the huge six foot jar in the picture above, were just silly. The grounds outside were just as grand with several man-made lakes, fountains, flowers, shrubbery, statuary, peacocks, forests and lawns as far as the eye could see. I spent some time trying to catch a photo of just one of the butterflies and bees on the flowers but they were far to busy enjoying the pollen to pose for me.

We made our way back into Paris through the traffic. We stopped briefly at a small suburb so Zabeth could sign the papers for their new flat. We saw the Eiffel Tower off in the distance, made it back to the apartment, and collapsed for the evening.

Cherchez les femmes

We had set aside a day to explore the historical sights of Lesbien Paris. Bonnie looked up the addresses where Natalie Clifford Barney had her salon in the 20s, Gertrude and Alice had their bookstore and home, the coffeehouses they hung out with Jean-Paul Sartre, Picasso, Oscar Wilde and Colette. The hotel d’Angleterre, where many of the out of town guests stayed, like Hemingway, Ezra Pound, and Thorton Wilder.

Zabeth would be our tour guide for the day. She had previously been to Natalie Barney’s apartment and had been let into the inner sanctum by a then elderly maid who had kept all of Natalie’s books.

We stopped at Violette & Company, a lesbian bookstore. It was a small quaint place filled with books and postcards. There were some t-shirts on the wall; one said, “The cure for homophobia is homeopathy.” We bought a book and some cards. We started on the bus and then walked by the Seine. We wandered the side streets until we found the address of Natalie’s house.

The whole place was undergoing a renovation. We snuck into the courtyard and peeked into the backyard where many a fabulous garden party had been held. These walls had seen many a scandalous moment in those days with women in several apartments, artists painting models, and tumultuous writers knitting their brows at desks now long discarded. We went into a stairwell and Zabeth pointed out a door that used to lead to the library where she had been. These were the stairs where great women had walked. These handrails were caressed by those hands. This window had framed the vision of a woman as she waited on the street below. Had this corner of the stairwell been where Natalie pressed Renée Vivian against her for that first passionate kiss, not able to contain her beating heart any longer?

There was no plaque, no notice, no idea what had gone on here, except what research we had done. It seemed only we knew at that moment. These were just someone else’s apartments now. Did they even know? Were they secretly inspired in the night? Did their hearts swell with love and creativity? The hopeless romantic in me dreams it could be so.

We stopped at the Hotel d’Angleterre and saw a notice on the wall about Hemingway. We walked on to see the Deux Magots café where many of them sat and talked over their lives. We found Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas’s house. There was a plaque on this wall commemorating the place. The courtyard garden looked so sweet, I could almost picture them having coffee together on a summer day. Here is where they made their lives together, outside of the prying eyes of the world, safe, together, and happy. This is where the ordinary happened and the extraordinary part of love bloomed. The part of love when you fix a meal together, wash the dishes, and lay in each other’s embrace at the end of a long day. It was here where perhaps two of the most recognizable names in lesbian history lived out the precious mundane moments that made up their life together.

We walked down to the Luxembourg Gardens at the end of their street. Many famous painters have depicted scenes here, many artists of the time found inspiration here. We walked through and saw children sailing toy boats in the fountain, lots of flowers, donkey draw cart rides for children, and many beautiful statues. By the time we made it to the other side to find the bus home, we were exhausted.

We stopped at the Monoprix grocery, had a bite to eat, and prepared to go out to see Wassim play at a local club.

France Travel Log

Hopefully the France travel log will contiune this weekend. Sorry for the delay. Hopefully Tribe stays up long enough for me to post the rest.

Have a great weekend everyone! Happy birthdays to all you Leos, my beautiful wife and to ME!

Pere Lachaise Cemetery

One of my odd hobbies is exploring old cemeteries. You find out the most interesting history of a place that way. Napoleon decided that all the great French people, artists, writers, musicians, and statesmen would be remembered properly and show the greatest of France. The remains of Moliere and La Fontaine were moved there in 1804. There are over 300,000 buried there. I knew we would only manage to find a few of the precious ones close to our hearts.

The cemetery was just up the road from the apartment where we were staying. We strolled up the street and stopped at a small café called Art and Te for an omelet and coffee for breakfast. This was also one of the things I wanted to do in Paris. Just sit in a café, off the beaten path, and have a real coffee. Our waiter was very nice and spoke some English. Again, shattering the tales of rude Parisians.

The couple of flower shops along the way were closed on Sunday, so I would not have a chance to buy flowers to place on Marceau’s grave. That was all right as he wasn’t expecting me anyway. All the websites had said there would be stands selling maps and the guards would have maps at the cemetery. We did not see anyone selling maps but there were a few general maps posted. We did see plenty of people with maps but not where to get one. I asked the guard where Marceau’s grave was at and he said “21.” This referred to the section where he was located.

We had our print out of who was in what section but immediately we were overwhelmed by the spectacular sculptures and grandeur of this place. We are so used to angels looking up to heaven and cherubs so happy that the dead person is with God now. But here, the angels were weeping, faces held in hands, broken hearted. Palettes and brushes of great artists lay aside crying statues for that art will never be made again. The angel at Chopin’s grave held her harp in her lap, so sad that that music could not even be played. So much more honest, this grief of death.

We saw the great writer Collette’s grave. Hers and Chopin’s grave were well tended with many flowers and plants. We searched and searched for Marceau but couldn’t find him in section 21. Finally I asked a family to look at their map. He was in section 20. I thanked the nice man and we walked up the hill to find him. Bonnie spotted a newer gravestone with the Star of David and sure enough there he was. I found a nice shiny black stone to place for him and took some pictures with my master.

We wandered on through the city of the dead. The trees and streets through the graves were amazing. Obelisks, statuary, ironwork, monuments, and history surrounded us. We found the columbarium where Isadora Duncan rests but could not find her among the thousands of plaques. We walked on to find Oscar Wilde’s sphinx. The entire thing was covered in lipstick kisses. Written on the bottom was “The greatest man in all the world.” It was so sweet. We found Gertrude’s Stein very plain grave together with Alice B. Toklas. It had a few stones along the top and one plain rose. Very poignant for her “A rose is a rose is a rose.”

We walked past the section for the WWII memorials for the concentrations camps. “France will never forget you,” was written on many of them. We cried a lot on that path. We heard someone ringing a bell in the distance and figured that this was our notice that the place would be closing. We had walked for hours and only seen a small part of this amazing place. We were hot, tired and hungry again. We walked around the outside of the cemetery back to the café and had a salad and a cold drink.

There was a picture on the wall of some fish. They all looked very surprised. Bonnie had me pose with the fish with the same face. It was very hard to take the picture since every time I made the face, Bonnie laughed her head off and everyone in the place looked at us and then I got embarrassed to be making such a ridiculous face. But eventually the masterpiece was made.

For more photos of out trip, check here:
www.facebook.com/home.php#/album.php

For more info on the cemetery, check here:
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/P%C3...e_Cemetery
goparis.about.com/od/sights...chaise.htm

On to Paris

The first day we didn’t get awakened by slamming doors or yelling was the only day we needed to get up at a specific time. My alarm on my Tako sports watch didn’t go off since I had set the second time not the alarm. Ok who needs two different times on a watch but I digress. We woke up 15 minutes before the ride to the airport was to arrive at 5am. Slap dash, we threw ourselves together, chucked our stuff in our suitcases and rushed out the door.

The Air France flight was delightful considering it was 0-dark-thirty. A very handsome flight attendant offered us coffee, croissants, and tiny little sweet breads. We arrived at Charles De Gaulle airport and said our goodbyes to whole group. We set out to take the RER train to the Metro and then on to the apartment where we would be staying.

The first thing to know is that there are no escalators or elevators on the Paris train system. This means if you have suitcases, you carry them up, down and all around the many flights of stairs. When we got to the Anthony Station to transfer to the Metro, we were tired, overwhelmed, and had tourist written all over us. I noticed this man hanging around the turnstiles but not moving through to the trains. Then we found out the hard way, he’s a pickpocket ready to play the crash-and-grab with Bonnie.

He waited until she was in the train turnstile and pushed into her. While she was trying to get through he lifted her wallet out of her purse. We were so tired from our early morning flight we thought he was just being an ass. I had a weird feeling about it and had her check her bag. Sure enough her wallet was missing with her passport. Poor Bonnie burst into tears. I said, “Stay here,” dropped everything and I ran back. He was STILL THERE! waiting to do it again to the next person! I chased him down and grabbed him. I shook him and yelled as hard as I could. He kept saying, “No it was a black man.” I kept yelling, “I know it was you! Give me the wallet!” I grabbed at his pants to see if he still had it. Then he laughed at me. I decided he needed to take me seriously. I kept a hold of his collar and punched the side of his face with that fist. I shoved him into the wall and hit him again. His eyes got very big. He took me down a hall in the struggle and pulled the wallet out of a trashcan. I grabbed it and the passport, driver's license, and all her credit cards were there. He ran off pretty quick when I let him go. All he got was 15 Euros and a 20 dollar bill. I yelled so hard I hurt my throat.

I ran back to Bonnie who was in tears. Some people from the train station were trying to help her. This man said, "How did you do that?" when I showed up with the wallet. We got our things together, tried to calm ourselves and got onto the next train to get out of there to the house were are staying at. It was quite a shock to go through that. It took us quite a while to calm down. When we finally made it to our destination, with some help of some very kind Parisians, we tried to lay down to take a nap. But I couldn't sleep; every time I closed my eyes I could see his face. Bonnie couldn’t sleep either. The whole episode was so upsetting.

Bonnie felt awful but none of it was her fault. Those shits do that every day. Like it is their job. I am grateful for all that we have and thankful for the outcome. I'm glad my beautiful Bonnie is ok, that she is unhurt, has her things back, and she is safe. I'm glad I apparently have no fear and no sense.

Day one, welcome to Paris. Great.

Medieval Walled City

Our last day, we went on a train trip through Basque country, to the medieval walled city of Saint Jean Pied de Port. Bonnie decided to stay at the hotel to sleep and have some down time to herself. It was my job to go on an adventure, take pictures, and report back my findings.

The countryside was beautiful. People rafting on the river, cattle, horses, sheep, and goats in the fields, crops, forests, and dotted through the countryside, sweet little villages. I noticed everyone had flourishing kitchen gardens. One stop was next to a farmhouse. Our car stopped right next to a pen with three piggies. The pigs all came over to the fence and gave us a good looking over. I took their picture while they posed for me.

The city of Saint Jean Pied de Port was so interesting. The streets were narrow and for walking only. Cobblestones, old brick facades, and glorious ironwork on heavy wooden doors surrounded us. As we walked down the first street, I saw a man leaning out the second story window. His shirt was billowy, his hair full, and he watched as this passel of dancers strolled through his town. I said to Amy, “Look, that could be any time in the past 500 years.”

The city itself was odd. Part working village, part tourist attraction with the fashion shops and theme stores, and part living history, I was fascinated by it

We walked out to a picnic that awaited us on the green. Midway through our meal it began to rain. Tjarda and Quinn had found a tree that had good cover so I lunched with them. The rain let up just in time for amazing almond cake with a yummy custardy middle. I fashioned a to go container to take some back for Bonnie.

We went back to the city to a café and had some coffees. The rain came and went. Some of us split off and went adventuring on our own. Sarah, April and Tangerine let me tag along with them to go check out the Citadel. The highest point in the surrounding area, this citadel would indeed have been an ideal place to defend from. Many arrow slits in the walls for archers, a great moat, and a rickety drawbridge that gave me the willies to cross.

We rendezvoused back at the café. We had some time before our train would arrive. I decided to go back to the old church that had once been the original building in the city. The foundations were laid in 1212. The church was built upon those foundations in 1508 and remained mostly unchanged since then. Those of you who know me, know that I’m not so into the whole religion thing, but I am a sucker for some good history. Inside, at the nave of Mary, I could feel the thousands of women who had come there to pray to her; asking for help in hard times and giving thanks in times of plenty. So many, right there.

We walked back to wait for the train ride home. We were a bit early. I wandered around looking at the old train buildings. Kami gave me some flowers to take to Bonnie. I went across the tracks to pick a few more for her. I noticed the sky was amazing right then and laid down to watch the clouds and sun dance together above me. All in all, a wonderful day to walk through history.

Do you have eyes?

All week we had bread, cheese, milk and jam delivered for breakfasts. Mimi, Djeynee’s mom, along with some of the crew prepared food for all of us; mindful of the vegetarians, gluten-free, and salt-free diets various people are on. The food all week was yummy and more than a lot of work feeding all those people.

I wanted a warm breakfast. The nearest grocery store was at least a miles walk away. At the first little market they did not have mushrooms. Bonnie really likes scrambled eggs with mushrooms and cheese. The next nearest store was an additional mile walk away and they did have mushrooms. I asked the lady behind the counter; first with my “sorry my French sucks” phrase, then “Avez-vous l’oeil?” thinking I’m asking for eggs. Oeil is French for eyes. Oeuf is eggs. At first, she stared at me while I tried to gesture “eggs” in the best way I could. She figured out my mistake, showed me the eggs, and had a chuckle. I had no idea I’d said it wrong until Pascal, Djeynee’s husband, explained it to me later.

One evening we had a picnic at the beach with a drum circle and dancing. I’m used to evenings at the beach with a bonfire and beach chairs in the sand. In France the sun does not set until well after 10 pm, the sand ranges from rocks to small pebbles, and usual snackie bits are wine, bread, and cheese.

The day after my surf adventure, the outing was to be a 30 minute walk to Biarritz to a night market. Up one side street in Biarritz, a little French bulldog came over and let me pet her. She went back to the gutter, picked up a fat green onion, brought it back and dropped it at my feet. Then she sat on my feet and wagged her tiny little tail. I bent down to pet her and was rewarded with many licks on the head.

The walk was difficult for me. My body had been so beat up by the surf the day before, sleep had been sporadic with loudness waking us up in the mornings, plus Bonnie was exhausted by classes. By the time we both got to the destination, we wanted to go back to the hotel to sleep. We made our way back to the bus and got a ride back.

The show at the end of the week was amazing. The stage was right off the main beach in Biarritz next to the fancy casino. The wind was blowing but everyone performed their hearts out. This show was outside, open to the public, and they flocked to see the show. Tjarda and Renata of Uzume from the Netherlands were fierce. They looked like Norse Goddesses walked right out of the ocean onto the stage. Amy and Tangerine did a wonderful piece together. Our drum class did a little bit. All the French groups, Kami, Fred, Ariella and Jenn were beautiful to watch. And of course, Unmata tore the stage up!

Raven co-hosted the show with a French fellow. She provided the English portion of the show. I talked them into letting me tell a wee tale. I told the story in French, as I had been practicing, about my trip to the market. Comedy in general is hard but in a foreign language is really difficult. They were all slightly amused by my attempts at French but they did enjoy the story of “Imagine. Instead of eggs, a breakfast of eyes.”

A Week in Biarritz

Our hotel was overlooking the beautiful west coast of France in a small town called Anglet, just north of Biarritz. Out the front door you could see, hear and smell the lovely ocean. A lighthouse framed one side of the view. This was a wonderful way to wake up.

Our room was indeed small. Six women, all our stuff, one toilet, two showers, two floors; if you can call the little attic room a floor, and a common area that you could almost swing a cat in. The common area was the kitchen, an eating area, a little couch, and a small back porch overlooking the golf course. I had been a little greedy and grabbed the one room with a bed for Bonnie and I in my rush to sleep the night before. We had a small meal of baguettes, cheese, and pizza that our hosts had prepped our rooms with.

The rest of the crews were roomed up similarly. Unmata and Uzume in one room; Ariella and her crew in another; while Amy, Raven and the girls were in the adjacent bldg. The only internet was available downstairs in the lobby. The wifi (pronounced wee fee in France) would be up or down all week, in one bldg or the other depending on the moment. All of us spent some time up and down the stairs trying to stay connected with email. Cars arrived sporadically to shuttle us to various events, classes, lessons, and shows. All of the Tribal Umrah crew were amazing. Some knew English or varying degrees of it, some did not. I had a wonderful time figuring out what to say, how to say it, or just how to get it across. All in all, they were a bunch of wonderful people.

The first night before the festival was a preview show. Djeynee had organized dancers from a few areas in France and Spain plus some of the dancers from the states. The show was great followed by a question and answer period. The press was there and did a couple of stories in the local papers about the festival and the big show in Biarritz at the end of the week. All the classes were well attended. I got to take two classes with two amazing drummers, Wassim and Nicholas.

I went down to the beach with Fred the first day. We took some pictures and just enjoyed the sound of the ocean. Kami, Fred and I walked around and looked at the architecture, some amazing houses, and some shops. A couple of days later I rented a bodyboard and went surfing. Little did I realize, but a storm was brewing in the Atlantic and I surfed in what turned out to be 12’ surf. It felt big at the time but I really wanted to experience it. I got my ass handed to me a few times, my speedo nearly pulled off me more than once, but all in all I had an exhilarating time.

The next day I took board back down to the beach. “Odd, no one is in the water.” I thought as I traipsed down the hill. The storm was imminent and the sea was angry. I thought, “I wonder if I should even go out. Well I rented this damn board, I guess I have to.” I put on my fins and started to enter the water. I heard lifeguards yelling and saw them waving up on the boardwalk. One of them came down to explain. I told him my standard beginning phrase, “Pardonez mois, ma Francais est terrible. Parlez-vous Anglais?”

He told me, “You cannot go. The red flag. It is your life. We will not come for you.”

I was truly shocked by this response. I sort of count on the lifeguards to come get you if you are in trouble. But I pretended not to be and asked, “Is it because of the storm?”

“Oui,” he replied, “We have a lots of the streams,” as he pointed to the ocean. I took this to mean bad currents.

I thanked him for explaining. He apologized for his accent. I told him, “I’m in your country. I should learn better French.” He smiled and went back to his post. I went back and gathered my things, and walked down to the board rental shack. After much back and forth with the owner, and the girl behind the counter telling him in French, “Fine you come and work. You tell her!” I got half my money back for the rental. She knew it was fair. The owner just didn’t want to give up the money since he would get no business for days.

I went back to the hotel, relieved that I really didn’t have to surf in hazardous conditions just to get my money’s worth. I was kind of scared looking at that raucous sea. I had surfed the day before in huge conditions. The next few days I was so sore but it was worth it.

I told my story to the girls and for the next few days we often said, “It is your life. We not come for you.”

Trip to France

This is what I had dreamed of. That I was actually going to France. 1974 I discovered the amazing world of Marcel Marceau and my dreams began. I worked hard at my craft of the Mime. I entered a prestigious contest at age 16 and won Most Inspirational Mime out of a field of 300, including professionals. I studied with every teacher I could. I took French so that when I graduated high school, I would travel to France and study with the master Marceau.

My father died the summer I graduated. I didn’t go to France. That dream was derailed. I went to see Marceau when he came to town. I snuck backstage the first time and spoke with him. He told me, “Show love in all your work.” I saw him again, aged but still able to fill a stage with his magic. Bonnie and I waited to see him. Again we spoke briefly. I floated from the auditorium. When he died in 2007, the world lost something great that I don’t even think it realized it had.

Yes I had preconceived notions about what France would be like. I had people telling me how rude the French were and even, “The problem with France is it’s full of French people.” But in my mind I knew that this place was filled with history and magic.

Reality began with the travel. San Diego to San Francisco to hook up with the first group, San Fran to New York, then New York to Paris; seemed like flying for an eternity. The overnight portion was no room to move, kids kicking our seats every 3-5 minutes, and zero sleep. We arrived at Charles De Gaulle airport. Here we had a 5 hourish layover while we wait for various groups to arrive. Raven, Plum and Tangerine along with Shelly and Sara from Unamta go to meet up with Amy and Kami from their flight. Frederique, Bonnie and I go freshen up in a clean restroom. We agreed to all meet up in the train station.

While in the rest room, we heard several announcements about “please pick up your lost bag.” On the way to the train station, we heard a very large explosion. It was the kind of sound that makes you stop and you guts says, “this is bad.” We were assured by an airport employee that the French military was taking care of everything – by blowing up the bags. We never found out if this had been some kind of exercise or if some poor schmuck had their underwear blown to smithereens.

We finally get all the different parties together. With half an hour left before our train leaves for Bayonne, the final party arrives with our tickets. We rushed to the train platform, piled on, and proceed with a five hour train ride. Yes, after starting out our day at 6am Pacific time the day before, flying, waiting, flying, waiting, blowing shit up, waiting – a train ride for five hours. Yes the countryside was beautiful, but sleep would have been more rewarding. The only opportunity I got to sleep in the train was for 3 seconds of lying down before the train filled up again. Cranky, delirious and hungry, I went to the cafe car and stumbled out some bad French to order some food. The lady was very helpful and knew some English. I got us some tasty sandwiches and that took care of the hungry part.

By the time we arrived at Bayonne, Bonnie and I hadn’t slept in about 40 hours. Our hostess Djeynee and a group of at least 12 greeted us. We split up into various cars, piled our luggage into a van and headed off to the hotel. We were allotted six to a room. I wasted no time in getting to the room, picking out a bed, and hurrying to get to sleep. The others girls were not so happy with the arrangements. Apparently the rickety bunk beds some got were actually sized for children. All I knew, I needed to sleep and whatever happened tomorrow, was tomorrow’s problem. Earplugs in, eye mask on, I slept fitfully – but at least it was sleep.