Junkyard Post One Week Four

In the dungeon of the hotel, where we are supposed to eat breakfast, I eat a croissant and yogurt. The yogurt is apricot today, the croissant, hard (but softens when covered in honey.) As I type out my response to Daisy Miller, I'm encompassed by languages. The hotel is a melting pot, a bowl for the German, French, Italian and American fruits. I want to pick one: an apple from New York, bitter accent green like the skin, or an orange from Rome, tan-ish an pocked, hints of citrus hiding under the spice before taste. The basket in the breakfast room almost empty, like the coffee canister, and a husky voice of a Norwegian asks for more bread.