Day 45 Rijeka, Croatia

I'm 66, born April 3, 1944, some would say, in the twilight of my years. I sit eating my breakfast in silence. A couple tables from me sits a very fat woman, maybe in her thirties, her broad shoulders hunched over a plate of sausages, cheeses, eggs, fried potatoes, and three or four types of bread that she lathers in marmalade. I watch her as she quickly finishes off the plate and goes back to the buffet counter for seconds. At another table is an older couple picking at their food, looking straight ahead but not at each other, a travel guide open to the side of the woman, but she doesn't seem interested. The fat lady has finished her second helping and walks back to the bread section, carefully inspects and picks out two croissants, a danish roll, a glazed bun, and another container of marmalade. The older woman hesitates as though about to speak but then frowns and points at something on her husband's plate. He looks down, shakes his head. The fat lady encircles the plate of breads with her arms as if to form a fortress, "These are mine, all mine, and no one is going to take them from me." The older woman's wrinkles deepen and the husband, expressionless, places the last spot of food in his mouth. On cue and in silence, the two get up, leaving the guidebook behind. Somewhere in Kansas they're having a church barbecue and someone is saying, "It's an opportunity of a life time. I'm so envious." The fat lady is still eating as I get up and leave.