It’s our last full day at Amchara. We’ve saved the best till last, because we’re both booked for full on professional colonic irrigation today, courtesy of Sally – she who is wise in the ways of all things poo. André is shitting himself about potentially shitting himself. I have tried to be as reassuring as possible and now he has at least met Sally during the colon talk the other day, he does at least know he is in safe hands.
I was very nice, and scheduled another hot stone massage for André for after his colonic so if he is at all stressed he will be soothed back down to Earth (to be fair, it is my sister who has been nice as she has treated us both to the second massage as a gift). It’s a bit of a strange one. We are paying one lady to stick things up Andre’s butt and another lady to rub him sensuously with oils. Strictly speaking, shouldn’t both these things be MY job? Not that I feel like sticking things up my boyfriend’s butt particularly. Other than on days when he’s in a chimpy mood with his ‘owl face’ on (what I call his stern scrunchy cross expression), in which case there have been many a time I would have happily rammed a cactus up there and hammered it in with a mallett to finish the job. But today is not an owl-faced day. Today is our last chance to soak up this loveliness, relaxation and peace.
As it was our last day, we’d talked about the possibility of rising really early this morning to go on the 6:45am coastal walk. We’ve heard all about these from the ‘morning people’ in the group. But I’m impressed enough with myself making it to an 8am yoga class every day, to ever think I would be dressed and sentient enough to put one foot in front of another at 6:45am. Apparently these are ‘silent walks’. So that part I could manage, as I can’t put words in a coherent order until gone 11am. I can’t help thinking that they became ‘silent walks’ because over the years people have been grumpy from not having had enough sleep and lost their rag with the perky peppy chatty types who can hold a conversation about anything from pop music to politics at 6:45am when other people’s eyes haven’t yet come into focus. Silence is the nice way of saying these are the Shut The Fuck Up Walks. No perkiness allowed until after we’ve had our coffee enemas and done aqua aerobics at the very least.
However we did get up fairly early, at around 7:10am because we’d realised that once again I’d failed to say goodbye to my Brazilian friend, Helena, as she’d not come on the group outing to the ex-Azure Window with us. We’d heard she was leaving at 7:15am before the reception desk was open and we were determined to roll out of bed and see her off with a hug.
As André and I waited outside by the pool in the morning sun, we basked in the glory of the quiet. Other than the birds singing in the palm trees above our heads, there was such peace and calm. Permeated only by the sound of Helena coming onto her balcony, grinning when she saw us and triumphantly waving something in her hand. We squinted in the sunlight to see what she was holding and realised she’d raided her healthy travel snack pack that Amchara provide all leaving guests with, and was gleefully clutching a piece of the incredibly delicious-looking ‘chocolate’ brownie that we’d seen Karima make at the food demo earlier in the week. Like a graduation present, we all get one when it’s our turn to go – taking a little bit of paradise with us in our tummies. My tummy did a sort of tremble at the thought that it would be our turn next to eat all the lovely things.
André helped Helena with her case to the front of the complex and we sat on the front step waiting for her taxi, mulling over the wonderful week we’d had, the huge and mind-blowing coincidence of us meeting up again there, and how extra special it had made the trip for both of us. We’d made sure we swapped contact details this time, and talked of meeting up in London some time for a reunion. Hugging her goodbye and seeing her off I felt pretty emotional. It’s funny how attached you can become to people here. I guess in such a safe and nurturing place, our guard comes down. We’re more like children – making friends in an instant – trusting, bonding, having fun, expressing our feelings more honestly. I will honestly miss the friends I have made here.
Yoga was awesome. Jana gets us to set some words of ‘intention for the day’ when we meditate. Mine today were ‘cherish, appreciate and mindfulness’. I didn’t want to miss out on a single moment of pleasure on our last day just because I was sad about it being our last day.
I noticed something today. After struggling a bit all week with downward dogs and various other yoga moves I suddenly felt aware that this session was feeling somewhat easier. The moves were flowing, I was more balanced and grounded, I could feel my body has got stronger in just the few days we’ve been here. I felt so encouraged and happy. It just goes to show how if you do anything regularly you will see improvement even in a very short time. André looks as if he’s been doing yoga for ages. He even did a bloody head stand today! When an advanced move is suggested, 8 times out of 10 he will try it. Just think, if he’d started yoga when he was younger then by now he’d undoubtedly be one of those supremely bendy people who can scratch their own eyebrows with their toenails. But to do yoga is to focus on one’s own practice and I was very pleased with my own progress. Even Jana noticed and commented today. Yay! I am getting stronger!
Breakfast. That word needed a whole sentence of its own. Breakfast. There, I gave it another one. It was time for our first 3D breakfast which was….drumroll please….a plate of chopped up apple. There has been much debate all week if this is one apple chopped into lots of small pieces or several apples. When you have not eaten food all week then portion sizes can be very deceptive. My personal bet is that it’s either one big apple or two small apples depending what is available from the local organic fruit seller.
André, Stephanie and I were all on apple day together. Stephanie couldn’t cope with eating it in front of anyone else and needed to go have a private nibble in the confines of her own room. Whereas André and I sat outside the breakfast room where I videoed this epic moment. You’ll need to see this. Eating an apple…was so bloody good…that André actually cried.
OK not big blubby child tears type crying, but he did genuinely well up with the emotion of eating something so beautiful. And I got emotional with the joy of knowing that his taste-buds had been ‘reborn’ the way that my own ones had the last time I was here. His reaction to soup last night and reaction to apple this morning have been such a joy to see. Being born anosmic (with no sense of smell, due to being a premature baby), André’s sense of taste is very limited usually. All vegetables taste alike and he can’t even tell the difference between cheese and onion or salt and vinegar crisps. So I didn’t think he’d necessarily get the same flavour hit I did when I first started re-introducing foods again after fasting the first time. Everything was strange and either wonderful or terrible. Old favourite foods (the sweet and salty things I’d crave my whole life) became too strong and unpalatable, whereas steamed vegetables filled me with the kind of excitement a five year old gets over birthday cake. It must have been nausiating for other people to watch me eat, perving over broccoli like some kind of weirdo. But here was André, meat-lover, ice-cream-addict, beer-drinker – crying over a piece of chopped apple. Life is sweet. Blessed be the fruit. 😉
Time for Andre’s colonic with Sally. (May the Lord open).
“What do I wear for a colonic?!” he cried from the bathroom where he was trying in vain to have a last poo before the storm.
“I can’t remember. I don’t suppose it matters as you’ll be taking it off I think.” I replied.”Come on! You’re going to be late!”
“I just need to poo!” André responded, sounding more than a little panicked.
Leave her something up there to find, I thought. Girls gotta earn her keep.
I passed the hour swimming in the gorgeous pool, listening to my underwater headphones and using my fabulous Easybreath mask from Decathlon which I wrote about last year. A few of the girls were intrigued and wanted to try it out, resulting in a few more orders for family holidays and so forth. I should be on commission.
Pretty soon it was time for my second and last hot stone massage of the week. It’s a tough life, I’m telling you. The spa is in the same block as the colonic irrigation suite. I don’t know why I’m calling it a suite – makes it sound more majestic and serious than just calling it a room. And as I was laying down for my massage, I heard André exiting Sally’s poo palace (that sounds better, doesn’t it?) with a triumphant ‘Yay!!!’ I could hear that he wasn’t just yarooping with relief that it was all over, but he was celebrating the fact that Sally was praising him on the cleanliness of his bowels and finally ‘letting go’. I swear, André is literally acing everything here, even the shiniest arsehole competition. I could tell that whatever had gone on in there, André had sure come out of it feeling lighter because I could actually hear him skipping down the corridor, singing to himself with joy. You know how when you walk a dog and they do a poo, and then kick grass over it and start running round in crazy joyful circles? That. Forget the ‘Joy of Sex’. This year’s blockbuster summer read will be the ‘Joy of Poo’.
Just a recap for those who didn’t read last year’s blog. Colonic irrigation is not the same as an enema. An enema is one you can do yourself by flushing about 2 litres of water or special organic coffee up your butt in your own bathroom and then basically exploding all down your own toilet. A colonic, despite needing to be administered by someone else, is actually far less traumatic in many ways, because there is the special tube that lets the water IN and then also one that lets it all OUT. You can see stuff flying down the tube on the way out if you are inclined to look. There are no smells or embarrassing noises. It’s all neatly and expertly contained. And Sally is a master at her job. Sally used to be a midwife, so she’s birthed far bigger and stickier things in the past than whatever comes out of your rectum.
Andre tells me after that his colonic was brilliant. That Sally praised him for how well he’d done all by himself as the first part of his colon was squeaky clean. But then after some considerable effort, water pressure and massaging, out come a TONNE more stuff he’d been holding onto for some considerable time, followed by yesterday’s beetroot juice! André was astonished at what was still left up there, but overjoyed to wave it bye bye as it whizzed along the tube like Augustus Gloop in Willie Wonka’s Chocolate Factory. Aint nobody gonna miss that old shit.
You’ve never seen a man with such sparkly eyes and glowing skin. Andre looks about 10 years younger than when we came. He keeps dancing and skipping round the pool. No one can work out where he gets this energy from on so few calories. Clearly he has released a lot of ‘heavy baggage’ while here. You have to admire his ability to adapt to his surroundings and give everything his best shot. I am pretty proud of him right now.
Lunch is freshly made guacamole and crudités. It is pure sex. Once again, Stephanie shuffles off to eat hers in private/secret which I think is adorable. Maybe she is shy of making orgasmic pleasure noises in front of the rest of us. I don’t hold back for anyone. You have never seen or heard a girl enjoy carrot batons as much as me at lunch today. Even remembering the juicy crunch of them makes me salivate. Keep your chocolate bars, I lust over fresh veg. I honestly do. I’m honestly that weird now.
The talk after lunch is all about Sugar. Having once given up all sugar (including milk/fruit) for an entire year in my twenties and seen the extraordinary benefits (huge weight loss, huge improvement in immunity, better skin, more energy, increased sex drive) I already knew quite a bit about the evils of this particular world-wide addiction. Very recently a friend told me about there being a probable causal link between our sugar consumption and dementia. And here in this talk I was hearing not only about that, but also about sugar increasing the rate of cancer growths (and other types of growths such as with endometriosis). I learned about how plant-based low-sugar diets can help support the body when faced with a variety of serious diseases (many studies back this up and this isn’t new to me but it was fascinating to learn the science behind why this is the case). We even drifted off talking about sugar to other things like red meat eating and its effects on tumour growth. I am a natural skeptic and ask a lot of probing questions and always want to check out the evidence of things I’m not sure of, but I become increasingly convinced we could reduce the strain on the NHS enormously just by eating right – and that goes for treating some mental health issues too. Sugar makes me a little bit crazy. OK more crazy than usual.
Andre’s turn to nip off for his last hot stone massage of the week. He comes back floating on a cloud with a face like a baby full of milk. The lady in the waiting room after him says ‘I’ll have whatever he just had’.
As for me, it’s time for my colonic with Sally. It’s been lovely to see Sally again (my first day at Amchara last year was her last day, but I loved her talk both times and she’s just so instantly likeable like almost everyone here). But although I’m pleased to see Sally and get a chance to catch up with her, I am NOT looking forward to this procedure. To be fair, the bit everyone worries about (straight men particularly) of having the tube thing stuck up your bumhole, really isn’t so bad. It’s not nice, but as a woman I’ve had far worse. When you’ve had babies in this country you get used to being treated like a glove puppet by the end of it your dignity flies South for the Winter and you learn to override embarrassment to a large extent by taking a deep breath and thinking of England.
The bit I dread is the feeling I will have diarrhea all over the couch. Which I never do. No one ever does. But that is what my brain is telling me will happen and it takes courage and determination to overcome that. Sally is brilliant though. She is calm and funny and intelligent and informative and reassuring all at once. She distracts you with just the right level of probing conversation (no pun intended) and is so good at her job. Since my job involves getting strangers naked and relaxed within a few minutes of meeting them I should know the skills it takes to win someone’s trust like that, in such a short space of time. Sally has won mine, and Andre’s and pretty much everyone else here too. I never hear anything but wonderful praise for the colonic treatments here. As weird and taboo a process as it is, people come out raving about them and the results they get here.
So I lay on my side and Sally reminds me that before we begin she just needs to do a quick check of the inside of my bum to feel for any piles or polyps before inserting the tube thing. She does this by inserting a lubricated, gloved finger and having a feel at top speed. She asks me to take a deep breath and on the out breath she does her business, quick as a flash. I sigh with relief when that part is done. My bumhole passes its MOT and after another deep breath in and out she inserts the nozzle of the tube. When I’ve stopped clenching for Britain and started breathing again she begins letting the water in from a massive tank on the wall. She carefully controls the flow in and out of my body according to what she can feel and what I myself am feeling. It’s all very patient and consensual and she goes at my pace. At this stage, André tells me he gave Sally a ‘safe word’ to let her know when he needed her to let the water out. I wonder what my safe word should be. I think ‘Kerpow!’ would feel apt. I feel like I am about to shoot water 40 feet out of my butt like a fireman’s hose. I don’t. Everything is contained – no mess, noise or smells.
I can see my ‘out’ tube is relatively clear.
‘Ooh look!’ says Sally, ‘A little seed!’ and as it goes floating past down the tube I wonder how long that tiny seed has been up there. It’s quite cute. ‘Bye!’ I think.
Conversation dips into all kinds of things from my job to my complex medical history. We touch a few historical nerves, things I found more difficult to talk about than I realised I did. A few deep breaths and I get past it. And around this time, right near the end of my session when nothing much had happened, suddenly the whole world comes out my bum and down Sally’s hoover tube. Loads of stuff I’d been holding onto, quite literally, for far too long. And so much comes out and keeps coming that I’m actually going over time and making Sally late for the next person. But she stays with me. This is what she’s been waiting for. All my old shit.
After my session I feel strange. I’ve heard about people having a sort of cathartic emotional response to their colonics. The literal holding onto and then releasing of your old shit seems to be very much tied up (with some people) with metaphorical shit you’ve been holding onto. I didn’t know I’d been holding onto a lot of old pain, a lot of old wounds for a very long time. We’re talking about tears that were 25 years overdue here. Pain I thought I was long past, a lifetime ago, but actually I’d just rammed it down deep inside me all this time…came tumbling out to the surface. This is the fourth colonic I’ve had in my life and yet these emotions, this reaction hit me as a complete surprise. I didn’t think I was the type to cry after a colonic. I wear my heart on my sleeve day to day and tend not to hold emotions in but let them flow freely. It hit me like quite a shock to know I had locked these feelings so deeply inside that I wasn’t even aware how much they were still hurting me. And suddenly, like that old poop flying down the tube to the sewer…they were up and out and away from me. You don’t need that old shit, I told myself. And I knew exactly what I DID need – a good old cuddle from my sweety. I asked Andre to spoon-cuddle me on our big bed and I had a little cry in his arms. He just held me and listened and let me breathe and talk and whimper. And within minutes it was all gone, and I felt fine again. I felt like something had released, I felt lighter, freer. I had let something far bigger go than just yesterday’s beetroot smoothie. I felt strangely proud of myself. And strangely in awe of Sally’s peculiar gift.
Later on, Andre and I compared notes and laughed about Sally inserting a cheeky finger to do her bum test. We roared with laughter thinking that not only had the same woman slipped both Andre and me the cheeky finger (which seems so absurd when you think of it that it could be read all kinds of ways) but that pretty much EVERYONE here at Amchara has had Sally’s finger up their butt. Some more than once. And we all paid for it. We should start a club. Sally’s Cheeky Finger Society. Bonded by this strange and emotional connection that defies most logical explanations. Only people who know about it would know what it meant to be a member. And you lot, reading my blog – you’re in on it too. Virtual initiates. I bet most of you even clenched your anus reading the last few paragraphs in empathy with me. Yep, you’re a part of it now.
Feeling delicate I skipped yoga class to just take some quiet time by the poolside by myself. I reflected on the precious week here. The old friends I’d seen, the new friends we’d made, the progress Andre and I have both made inside and out. I felt very lucky and also very sad it was coming to an end again. I had one last solo swim in the pool and quickly changed for our last supper together. A fantastic vegan dish of veg that is far more exciting tasting than words can describe here. But listen, if a girl can get excited over a bit of carrot then you’ll understand why words escape me completely over a medley of vegetabley gorgeousness. Everything is so crunchy and fresh. Everything tastes so good. André and I look at each other as we eat – sharing the experience, oozing joy and appreciation at each other. It’s the complete reset thing again – I love that he feels it too. It’s the nicest gift I have ever given him and it hasn’t even come from me, it’s from nature itself. God that sounded corny, sorry. But it’s true.
Our exit interviews at the end of the day were to talk through progress we had made, ask any questions we needed to, recheck weight and blood pressure and just say goodbye to the lovely naturopaths an therapists who have been looking after us here. Andre and I were thrilled that not only did we feel great, look pretty darn good (even if I do say so myself) and had a great time, but we both lost over 8 pounds each in the 6 days we spent here! Our blood pressure readings had come down and everything was just fabulous. Andre was delighted that he was no longer a bakery possum and I was delighted that the lump of fat that lives under my breasts but above my stomach had disappeared too. But all of that weight loss stuff was just the cherry on a cake – even without losing a pound I would have loved every second.
With just one evening left in Gozo, the group had decided to spend it in a very special way. We’d all loved the walk to the ex-Azure Window at sunset the night before, and asked if we could walk down there again. Not to get a boat trip this time, but just to paddle, watch the sun go down completely this time. Jana, the yoga teacher, had kindly agreed to escort us down the cliffs this time, and off we went.
Did I secretly hope that André might just propose given a second chance at it? Of course I hoped. I hope he does every day – whether we are standing on the Bridge of Sighs in Venice or in the loo roll section of Tescos. That’s the hopeful romantic I am and always will be I guess. But did I think he would? – No. If I’m honest, I know deep down he just doesn’t want to and I don’t want him to ask me if he doesn’t want to. So, I just resigned myself to enjoying the romance of the full sunset this time with the man I love and our new friends.
But getting to the water’s edge, the group split into two sections – half going down to a pool area to paddle and half lingering by the rocks. Through crossed wires, Andre and I ended up going in different directions with me thinking he was going to join us and vice versa. So I sat on a little boat jetty, legs dangled into the cool sea, paddling and chatting with Stephanie, and other new friends about life, love and everything. I told ‘the story’ of why the Azure Window was so important to me to the group, and we all laughed. And laughing really does help it hurt less, so I don’t mind the laughter at all. It is kind of funny. I can see my own pathos. And Stephanie shared more laughter with me with the tale of her marriage, where she was groped by the drunken Elvis impersonator who walked her down the aisle at her Las Vegas wedding. And then had me in fits of giggles with her suggestion that I start a new blog all about the romantic places where André has either turned me down or failed to propose to me. Paris, Venice, Rhodes, Gozo….it could be the world’s best failed-romantic travel blog. I wondered if I could even get travel companies to sponsor me to go to their most fabulous romantic locations and test the theory that nothing short of hell freezing over could make my man change his mind about marriage. And the thought of something funny and positive coming out of my daft little broken dream tickled me immensely. So expect that blog to happen any day soon. Every cloud and all that…
The girls and I fanned our legs back and forward under the water, putting the world to rights and sharing more stories. Then I shrieked a little as something in the water tickled my leg. I looked down and there was one solitary little prawn floating there in the water, looking right at me. ‘Hello!’ I said, thinking how lucky that prawn was that I’d gone off shellfish after my last visit to Amchara and that someone else in the group hadn’t hoiked him out and eaten him in seconds. A short time later a little crab ran up and over my leg, causing me shriek again and marvel at the feisty seafood they have here in Gozo.
‘You’re Ariel!’ trilled Stephanie. ‘She’s an actual mermaid, I’m sure of it!’ And we all laughed about all the critters making a beeline for me. Reminding me a little of the time a wild hedgehog literally charged at me and ran between my legs in Greece. And the way wild birds fly at my head. Maybe I give off some strange electromagnetic pulses that confuse animals – the way that submarines put whales off course and make them beach themselves? Or maybe I *am* a mermaid, like Stephanie says. I’ve got the tits for it, afterall.
The sun was starting to set, and being our last chance to share it, I became anxious to find André again and have that romantic, if slightly melancholy moment watching it set together over the beautiful Gozotan sea. Climbing back up the hill I spotted him and found him taking photos at the cliff edge with a few other tourists.
I sat with him and held his hand and then suddenly could hear Jana calling for us all to join her in the taxi back to Amchara!
‘No!’ I said. We were supposed to watch the sun go down this time. But the taxi was there and it was time to go again. My face must have looked like thunder, because Andre’s hackles rose and he was sort of grumpily saying ‘Do you want to stay? Because the last bus has gone and we might have to walk all the way back up the hill if we can’t get a taxi and you won’t want to walk.’ And I sulkily got back in the taxi bus, feeling cheated once again out of my romantic sunset moment. I did NOT have the energy to do a long hill walk that night. But I was sad about the timing of the taxi.
Seeing my face crumple, André called me out of the taxi again and got the number of the cab company. “Come on,” he said, smiling. “It is our last night, after all.”
Taking me by the hand he led me and my big grin to the edge of the cliff. I made us a little nest on my cardigan and we sat down on the rocks to watch the last sunset together, just like I had dreamed it would be. We shared a kiss and then both got out our cameras to take photos of each other and the stunning sunset as we sat hand in hand.
And it was perfect (minus the proposal of course) until an American tourist with no ability to read the mood or moment decided he would make Andre his new best friend right that very second, as the sun was dipping into the sea on the horizon.
“Oh you’ve got the Canon! I love that camera! Do you want to see mine? How do you find it? What lens are you using?’
WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK! AMERICAN TOURIST SHUT UP! GO AWAY! THIS IS MY LAST FRIGGING ROMANTIC SUNSET ON GOZO WITH MY MAN AND YOU ARE RUINING IT TALKING ABOUT FOCAL RANGES AND YOUR NEW DRONE/CAMERA COMBO! NOBODY CARES! FUCK OFF! FUCK OFF BEFORE I PUSH YOU OFF THIS CLIFF!!!
That is what I was thinking. What I said was this….
Because I am British, and well brought up. I sat there seething and dying inside while those precious romantic sunsetty moments ticked by with the American chattering away like an utter twat-chimp fucking up the moment I’ve dreamed of sharing with Andre for the last nine months. And just when I was getting up the courage to say as politely as I could, ‘I’m terribly sorry, would you mind talking about cameras AFTER sundown’, in a consciously-neutral tone that didn’t make me sound like the complete killer bitch I felt like inside…he shut up. Maybe the wild look in my eyes and my twitchy fingers forming into ‘shoving paddles’ sent him a clear enough message. Maybe he thought the conversation about drones and cameras wasn’t worth dying for in a bloody heap on a jagged rock in the sea below. Or maybe his own girlfriend gave him a sharp jab in the testicles that I couldn’t see because he was probably also crushing her dreams. Although after the boring conversations about cameras whilst MISSING the world’s most glorious sunset she was probably relieved he didn’t propose to her and had resigned herself to sleeping with his best friend the first chance she got instead.
So there it was – finally – relative silence, the sound of the waves, the feel of the warm breeze, the golden sun in my hair, my head on Andre’s shoulder, us snapping away together like the nature-paparazzi we are. It was as close to living the dream as I’m ever going to get. And I loved it.
Sitting, waiting for our taxi after, looking at our stunning photos we relived those moments again together, both so glad we had stayed behind. Of all the places Andre has failed to propose to me, this was my favourite so far. It was very romantic and I will never forget the beauty of that scene, the feeling of sharing it with him and the near-perfection of the moment he failed once again to ask me to be his wife. It was great. And I will never regret sharing it with him. There’s no one I’d rather be rejected by in the whole world than that wonderful man of mine. Sometimes you just have to compromise your dreams for the one you love, and cherish all the little things you DO get.
Back at Amchara, our friends had gathered around the newly lit fire pit to celebrate our last night. Funny how easy it was to relax and be merry without any alcohol and nothing more exciting than a water or a herbal tea to sup. But like the oldest of friends, we sat around the campfire late into the night, swapping stories and sharing jokes.
I told them of my planned blog post about genetic heritage, how the length of your toes can tell you a bit about your ancestry, and we all laughed as the group instantly divided itself into people with long second toes (fucking freaks) and people with normal beautiful toes (you and me, Jo, we’re the winners here). But such divisions were fleeting, and we were ultimately united as one big happy gang, sharing what we cherished most about our time here. Andre said ‘The best part for me was sharing this all with CJ’. The group sighed and mock-vomited in unison. I welled up a little. Because it has been awesome being here with Andre. It has been awesome sharing it with everyone actually.
They are the most fantastic bunch and we will miss them. The Sally’s Cheeky Finger Society. I doubt we will ever all be together again at the same time, but I do hope I see them again one day and I’m absolutely sure they will all come back to Amchara some day. And if fate wills it, then like Helena and I…we will meet again.