Theft by Finding - David Sedaris

Hugh and I spent yesterday afternoon in central Ljubljana, and after three and a half hours I was so
desperate to spend money I considered taking out insurance. If forced to buy a gift for someone, it
would be a toss-up between an American-made notebook with a pony on the cover and a pair of those
flesh-colored pads you use to protect your nose from the bridge of your glasses.
By the end of the afternoon all I’d bought were two plums and a pizza that came topped with
canned peas, corn, and diced potatoes. These were referred to on the English-language menu they
gave us as vagatbles. What they meant, I think, was Macedonian vagatbles.
July 31, 1999
Ljubljana
Last night at dinner Nancy mentioned a diplomat named Outerbridge Horsey VI. Afterward I
complimented Yassa, the housekeeper, on her English. She is perhaps in her late forties, and blushed,
saying, “No, I think I am speaking like a Negro.”
August 4, 1999
Paris
In Venice I got a haircut at a little place not far from the hotel. The barber spoke no English, and
because I’d left my phrase book back in the room, we just nodded to each other, me indicating, I’m
guessing, that he should just go wild. The result is a hard, mousy-brown dome that sits on my head
like a helmet someone tossed from a few feet away. After leaving, I tried to soften it, but nothing
worked, so I had to walk around like that until after dinner. We ate at an outdoor restaurant someone
had recommended. Beside us sat a family of Germans—a man, his wife, and their daughter, who
looked to be around thirty. They were just finishing their meal and had ordered another round of
drinks as we arrived. The man lit a cigarette, then, with no apparent shame or self-consciousness, he
farted. Ten minutes later he did it again. The table to our other side started laughing and looking our
way, thinking that Hugh or I had done it. They were American and while it would have been easy
enough to set them straight, it always looks like you’re lying when you try to deny it was you who
farted.
August 8, 1999
La Bagotière
I got a letter from my father and realized it’s only the second one he’s ever sent. Regarding my
break with French school, he writes, “I do believe that you need to continue your study on a formal,
regimented basis. GET WITH IT!!! Having a good command of any language reflects class. Anything else
is not cute, it’s pathetic.” He then suggests that for my next reading in Germany, I switch from my book
to the Bible, “vis-à-vis Noah and the ark, and observe the response you get from the audience—ha!”
In the next paragraph he tells me that I should read in Athens. “In the old outdoor theater just below