I walked back to my new apartment. Foued was busy finishing the wall without the stones. He immediately explained to me that we had to chisel out that old concrete and replace it. Ca fait moche - that's ugly. My French isn't that good, and neither is his. I listened, he repeated, he is patient. I want to understand. I think, OK, maybe he's right, though I don't like the idea of painting the old puitres, the beams, blue. That about makes me nuts. I mean no disrespect, to him or to Pavel. But I know what I like and what they are saying is not it. I ask if I might take some time to think about it. This is difficult for them because the meter is ticking. They have other work to do and this job can't wait for a lot of contemplation. I have the weekend. Later I decide not to re-do any of it. Pavel is gracious and he is after all French (though really he is Polish and I cannot understand him either). He doesn't care. Foued thinks I'm nuts.
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