By Maryanna Gabriel
My vagrant gypsy life is not over but there is light at the end of the tunnel and please, if you will, stay tuned for that. Happy as I was, dictated by circumstance, I moved to new accommodation. I was open to the idea - grass is greener and all that. The smell of adventure in the air. New places to explore. Hair blowing in the wind. Call me Rambling Rose and see you later. What a wild and exciting woman.
Oh boy. A closer look at my reservation indicated a few issues (like no way I could write, for example, with the desk and chair). Fine. Not a problem. I spent the winter writing in cafes. I'm a trooper. I'll adapt.
In the predawn light, however, I knew I was in trouble when a vehicle stealthily crunched across the gravel and stopped two feet from my open kitchen window. A rather delectable cinnamon number from a bakery I admire was on the hob. The back of the van opened wide revealing its contents. Boxes labeled "Meat" were steadily being unloaded. Suddenly, the whole eating of the bun shifted as I registered what was happening. A number of comments swirled, and the penny dropped. What I was eating suddenly tasted like something else.
Black gates that open with the right code...the vast expansive lawns without a weed in sight and no chairs to enjoy the grass on...the lake-sized pond with a Palais de Versailles fountain...constant irrigation...the long low buildings beyond. In this vast grass-is-greener setting, the meat was steadily transferred to an adjacent warehouse.
Rats.
You read that right.
The product was rats. The bun rolled around in my mouth as I contemplated the ramifications. This was an Auschwitz for rats. Now don't get me wrong. Rats are not my faves by a long shot and I guess somebody has to provide the pythons and what-not in zoos. But geez. Call me sensitive - I spat my bun out.
Further research provided enlightenment. "Not too fat and not too thin" rhapsodized a Google reviewer. So, just right then. No need to run to Stephen King. Have it all here...