Another Continent
My father pointed out and it was true: we could always tell the Aeroflot jets by the roar that dug into the sky long after their smoky trails were gone. This was in the back garden, a Saturday one summer.
It was my job, on trips to the supermarché, to choose his beer. I liked the one with the green elephant on the label—a fine choice, he said.
“I’ve stopped having to figure out the dollars,” I said.
“Isn’t it nice,” he said, “for things to be boring?”
I seem to remember thirty francs to the dollar, but I couldn’t say now how many francs we paid. Of course, within those years, there must have been variations.
