THE ITALIAN-EDITING IDIATAROD
I am DONE with bareskin gonzo journalism. Don't get me wrong the Snow Bath experience was huge but I'm beyond tired. Deadlines, four hours of sleep a night, six-hour meals ... I grab my Bain de Neige certificate; hug Pauline, Bruno and Raymond; then creep back to the Hilton, jaywalking a la Quebecois, and collapse.
The Inappropriate Beau is, I believe, in Perth. My sweetheart's in summer. I'm desperately soaking in the shower, trying to raise my core temperature.
Helen and I manage about ten minutes at the parade, then slope off, promising to watch from the hotel windows. I do, over the iBook's top, proofing the PhraseFinder.
"This resembles the Italian-editing Iditarod," I write my handler at Frommer's. "I'm either freezing in the cold or fumbling with my bilingual dictionary."
Still want my job?