Hotel 101;
When you pull up to a hotel and a tour bus is in the parking lot. Proceed with caution. When a gaggle of preteens come stampeding out of the lobby doors like moms on Black Friday, run. Admit defeat. Check into the run down Holiday Inn across the street next to the Dirt Cheap liquor store and spend the evening strategically placing furniture in front of the door.
I’m sure restroom graffiti will be at an all time high after this weekend. As eager as I am to see if the Jamie + Andy 4eva romance makes it past Saturday, I fear I’ve been a little distracted by the fire alarm that was pulled. Between watching the two fire trucks and surveying the evening attire of the other guests, I’m a little tied up.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Lawrence, Kansas
1 pm: Just now entering Lawrence. There is a key point in the route I take to get here where you reach a T in the road and have to fully commit. Lawrence? Or get the hell out of Kansas. My fear of commitment has subsided these days, I turn left.
2 pm: She does not look pleased to see me. In fact, she’s either recently dabbled in a wide selection of half rotting cheese, or she is annoyed to be helping me. She asks for my ID again. I explain that it’s in the car and ask if she wouldn’t mind looking me up in the database, as I had just stayed here earlier in the week and my van had to be parked four blocks away due to their height restrictive parking lot. No, it’s not a cheese face, she’s irritated. She scowls typing into her computer. Gradually, her expression changes in a manner which I can sense she knows I’m witnessing it. I’m guessing she just saw my reward status and how often I take surveys of my hotel stays. Looks like bringing those bikes in will be no problem.
3 pm: This hotel has two rooms, and I’m sitting in the living room simulation. There is an investigative report on Big Foot hunters on the television to my left and three postcards with temperatures scrawled on them stacked together on my right.
4 pm: Mid-conversation with one of the local wrenches at the shop in town. He’s offering to squire me about town tomorrow via bicycle to look at all of the historical plaques in the county. How’s a girl to say no?
5 pm: At an outdoor patio of a restaurant called Ingredient. “Peaceful easy feeling” is quietly being played on overhead speakers and the sun is beginning to char my shoulder blades. It’s nice out, but I’m in Kansas alone. My head is jumbled, creating the worst possible scenarios for three uncomfortably open situations I am too far away to fix. The boy; the sister; the job. I’m trying to put my finger on what is different about this college town. Somewhere between observing the local basketball frat boys behind me scold a reckless driver and overhearing the cuff-linked moneybag couple at table 4 congratulate a dred-locked tattoo covered new mom, my food arrives.
6 pm: Mom calls. She makes comments on how I’m likely getting fat. I feel better.
8 pm: The boy calls. We relish in the latest historical tidbits from our day and I ruin another potential surprise by not only telling him that thinking of him I bought a t-shirt, but what exactly is on it and the weave of organic cotton. Some things will never change.
9 pm: Just cancelled plans to meet up with the firefighter/wrench from the shop. I’m admitting defeat. I’m exhausted.
10 pm: This bed is too comfortable to crawl out of and get my book. Looks like another night drifting away to Fresh Prince re-runs.
2 pm: She does not look pleased to see me. In fact, she’s either recently dabbled in a wide selection of half rotting cheese, or she is annoyed to be helping me. She asks for my ID again. I explain that it’s in the car and ask if she wouldn’t mind looking me up in the database, as I had just stayed here earlier in the week and my van had to be parked four blocks away due to their height restrictive parking lot. No, it’s not a cheese face, she’s irritated. She scowls typing into her computer. Gradually, her expression changes in a manner which I can sense she knows I’m witnessing it. I’m guessing she just saw my reward status and how often I take surveys of my hotel stays. Looks like bringing those bikes in will be no problem.
3 pm: This hotel has two rooms, and I’m sitting in the living room simulation. There is an investigative report on Big Foot hunters on the television to my left and three postcards with temperatures scrawled on them stacked together on my right.
4 pm: Mid-conversation with one of the local wrenches at the shop in town. He’s offering to squire me about town tomorrow via bicycle to look at all of the historical plaques in the county. How’s a girl to say no?
5 pm: At an outdoor patio of a restaurant called Ingredient. “Peaceful easy feeling” is quietly being played on overhead speakers and the sun is beginning to char my shoulder blades. It’s nice out, but I’m in Kansas alone. My head is jumbled, creating the worst possible scenarios for three uncomfortably open situations I am too far away to fix. The boy; the sister; the job. I’m trying to put my finger on what is different about this college town. Somewhere between observing the local basketball frat boys behind me scold a reckless driver and overhearing the cuff-linked moneybag couple at table 4 congratulate a dred-locked tattoo covered new mom, my food arrives.
6 pm: Mom calls. She makes comments on how I’m likely getting fat. I feel better.
8 pm: The boy calls. We relish in the latest historical tidbits from our day and I ruin another potential surprise by not only telling him that thinking of him I bought a t-shirt, but what exactly is on it and the weave of organic cotton. Some things will never change.
9 pm: Just cancelled plans to meet up with the firefighter/wrench from the shop. I’m admitting defeat. I’m exhausted.
10 pm: This bed is too comfortable to crawl out of and get my book. Looks like another night drifting away to Fresh Prince re-runs.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Kansas City, MO to Lawrence, Kansas
Yesterday. Part one.
7 am- Two banana peels reside next to my sandals in between the seats. I’m struggling with the knob on the radio. I hate listening to people talk in the morning. They are discussing the end of the world and the preparation needed to survive the swine flu epidemic. And Rhianna. I’m thinking of cloned body parts, the ability to keep a closet full of one duplicated organ and narrowing down my back-stock choices.
9 am- I saw the sign… I haven’t heard this song in forever.
10 am- The muffin selection at this Caribou is weak. I used to be partial to chocolate chocolate chip. For over a year I was brought chocolate chip muffins on a weekly basis. The innocent misinterpretation was flattering, and I knew the source of these muffins didn’t usually have access to that necessary extra dose of chocolate batter. But there’s a difference. I pass on pastries all together and settle into a table for two by the front window with my abnormally hot chai. The computer is a mediocre plus one, but our routine is comfortable.
11:30 am- Phone rings. I drop my 5 mil. and rush outside. I can’t listen close enough. I teeter on the curb like a balance beam. I can’t stand still. I wobble one direction and then the other, my right hand holding my phone to my ear and my left arm outstretched to remain upright. I turn to retrace my route in the opposite direction. There are two black cats eating road kill remnants in the parking lot. I sit down, watching the ragged felines picking apart a life, as we dissect hers on the other end of the line.
Noon- I’m listening to him grunt. He doesn’t say much, but his grunts speak volumes. He’s unhappy loading the bikes into the back of his man-van and he’s more unhappy that ye ole me is supervising his every move. Now, now, sir, I wouldn’t be here supervising if you rode a bike once in a while. See how this could be avoided? You familiarize yourself with the two wheeled beast and I’ll back off. Until then, I won’t refrain from asking you not to place the metal buckle from the tie downs directly on a carbon frame. Roll your eyes all you want, I know from experience how much you can brake before that box slides into those Carbones and tears a hole in the side.
7 am- Two banana peels reside next to my sandals in between the seats. I’m struggling with the knob on the radio. I hate listening to people talk in the morning. They are discussing the end of the world and the preparation needed to survive the swine flu epidemic. And Rhianna. I’m thinking of cloned body parts, the ability to keep a closet full of one duplicated organ and narrowing down my back-stock choices.
9 am- I saw the sign… I haven’t heard this song in forever.
10 am- The muffin selection at this Caribou is weak. I used to be partial to chocolate chocolate chip. For over a year I was brought chocolate chip muffins on a weekly basis. The innocent misinterpretation was flattering, and I knew the source of these muffins didn’t usually have access to that necessary extra dose of chocolate batter. But there’s a difference. I pass on pastries all together and settle into a table for two by the front window with my abnormally hot chai. The computer is a mediocre plus one, but our routine is comfortable.
11:30 am- Phone rings. I drop my 5 mil. and rush outside. I can’t listen close enough. I teeter on the curb like a balance beam. I can’t stand still. I wobble one direction and then the other, my right hand holding my phone to my ear and my left arm outstretched to remain upright. I turn to retrace my route in the opposite direction. There are two black cats eating road kill remnants in the parking lot. I sit down, watching the ragged felines picking apart a life, as we dissect hers on the other end of the line.
Noon- I’m listening to him grunt. He doesn’t say much, but his grunts speak volumes. He’s unhappy loading the bikes into the back of his man-van and he’s more unhappy that ye ole me is supervising his every move. Now, now, sir, I wouldn’t be here supervising if you rode a bike once in a while. See how this could be avoided? You familiarize yourself with the two wheeled beast and I’ll back off. Until then, I won’t refrain from asking you not to place the metal buckle from the tie downs directly on a carbon frame. Roll your eyes all you want, I know from experience how much you can brake before that box slides into those Carbones and tears a hole in the side.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Lincoln, Nebraska
The radio is beeping on every station. The sky’s rolling black clouds feel low enough to touch. The tornado siren sounds for the second time in ten minutes as I pull into a nearby parking lot. Sirens in this town are essentially a “don’t walk” sign. People line store fronts duck under awnings. No one is moving. Work seizes to function as employees press their faces against the large glass window fronts, gazing upwards and pointing.
I pause in the van, waiting for the rain to let up. Fat suicidal drops hurl themselves towards the pavement, coming in from the right. The wind changes and suddenly the kamikaze droplets are hammering down from the left. All too unexpectedly it stops. There is a giant breathless pause. Heads poke out from store fronts. It is the break before the firework finale on the 4th of July, we know what’s coming, but aren’t sure when.
I make a dash for it. Despite what nature is up to, I’m hungry, and rumor has it the burgers two blocks down can’t be beat. I duck into the bar right as the rain picks up again and the fourth siren begins. I order and sit next to the window to watch the clouds churn as I sip my lemonade.
I suppose I wasn’t concerned because no one else in the town seemed to be. When the fifth siren sounded someone cranked up Dave Matthews Band, frat boys wearing golf gear ordered another round to ready themselves for the evenings “golf pros and tennis hos” themed party, and I began a quick walk back to the local bike shop.
I didn’t think much of things until the sparkle of metal caught my eye. Newly pierces trees stood adorning their newly acquired shards, insulation squares caught in bare branches. A few blocks away the houses missing roofs made me evaluate where I was, how close I was.
But that burger was damn good.
I pause in the van, waiting for the rain to let up. Fat suicidal drops hurl themselves towards the pavement, coming in from the right. The wind changes and suddenly the kamikaze droplets are hammering down from the left. All too unexpectedly it stops. There is a giant breathless pause. Heads poke out from store fronts. It is the break before the firework finale on the 4th of July, we know what’s coming, but aren’t sure when.
I make a dash for it. Despite what nature is up to, I’m hungry, and rumor has it the burgers two blocks down can’t be beat. I duck into the bar right as the rain picks up again and the fourth siren begins. I order and sit next to the window to watch the clouds churn as I sip my lemonade.
I suppose I wasn’t concerned because no one else in the town seemed to be. When the fifth siren sounded someone cranked up Dave Matthews Band, frat boys wearing golf gear ordered another round to ready themselves for the evenings “golf pros and tennis hos” themed party, and I began a quick walk back to the local bike shop.
I didn’t think much of things until the sparkle of metal caught my eye. Newly pierces trees stood adorning their newly acquired shards, insulation squares caught in bare branches. A few blocks away the houses missing roofs made me evaluate where I was, how close I was.
But that burger was damn good.
Friday, April 24, 2009
lawrence, kansas
Arrived into Kansas around 1am to find that my van wouldn't fit into the parking lot due to one of those restrictive beams. Those 7 foot cut off beams have become the bane of my existence. At first, I played nice. I parked on the street and walked, walked further, and kept walking until reaching the hotel to properly check in. The attendant was on an internet chat-room in the "office station." Very 90's.
She rounded the corner and we discussed the parking scenario. She informed me the beam in the back of the parking lot was quote "a lot higher" and I should be able to fit there. Sleepily, I was convinced; determined. The visions of crushed grass and exposed dirt that had flashed through my mind while parking down the street faded into a mirage of endless empty parking spaces.
Sure enough, her eyes had been playing tricks on her.
The red paint on the beam on the rear entrance also clearly said 7 feet. Exhausted, I inched towards the beam, challenging it. The plastic tube rattled on my antenna threatening to snap the weakening wire. Defeated, I put the van in reverse, it's loud beep drawing attention from the college kids crossing through lawns on their walk back from the bar. I parked in the street blocks away and again, trudged back to the hotel, dragging my suitcase and broken ego behind me, thoroughly exhausted.
Of course, as is usually the case when one wants something a little too much, sleep didn't come until late. I fell asleep close to 3 am with Fresh Prince in the background, Will Smith looming over me. Waking promptly at 7, my eyelids half closed, my feet drug me towards the shower and I stood, motionless for a few moments trying to figure out how I got into this pattern yet again.
Two blocks away, I spot the bike shop. I park myself in a near by cafe to caffeinate and practice my small talk on the barista before moving up to the gentlemen from the shop that keep cycling through upon seeing my van. Yes, that would be mine. Who'd have thought the under slept, over caffeinated girl hiding behind a laptop with a pile of receipts occupying the table for four would be the first guess of driver of the bug infested windshield parked around the corner from the shop. Good guess? Or the bags under my eyes are now holding a map documenting my travels thus far.
I can be read all to easily.
I finish my coffee and am out the door in fifteen minutes. There is already a ticket on my van despite the fact that the meters aren't set to be policed until 10. I groan all too loudly, attracting the sidewalk patrons as I stomp over to the van. I grab the ticket and collapse into the driver's seat.
$2.
Should have rammed that beam.
She rounded the corner and we discussed the parking scenario. She informed me the beam in the back of the parking lot was quote "a lot higher" and I should be able to fit there. Sleepily, I was convinced; determined. The visions of crushed grass and exposed dirt that had flashed through my mind while parking down the street faded into a mirage of endless empty parking spaces.
Sure enough, her eyes had been playing tricks on her.
The red paint on the beam on the rear entrance also clearly said 7 feet. Exhausted, I inched towards the beam, challenging it. The plastic tube rattled on my antenna threatening to snap the weakening wire. Defeated, I put the van in reverse, it's loud beep drawing attention from the college kids crossing through lawns on their walk back from the bar. I parked in the street blocks away and again, trudged back to the hotel, dragging my suitcase and broken ego behind me, thoroughly exhausted.
Of course, as is usually the case when one wants something a little too much, sleep didn't come until late. I fell asleep close to 3 am with Fresh Prince in the background, Will Smith looming over me. Waking promptly at 7, my eyelids half closed, my feet drug me towards the shower and I stood, motionless for a few moments trying to figure out how I got into this pattern yet again.
Two blocks away, I spot the bike shop. I park myself in a near by cafe to caffeinate and practice my small talk on the barista before moving up to the gentlemen from the shop that keep cycling through upon seeing my van. Yes, that would be mine. Who'd have thought the under slept, over caffeinated girl hiding behind a laptop with a pile of receipts occupying the table for four would be the first guess of driver of the bug infested windshield parked around the corner from the shop. Good guess? Or the bags under my eyes are now holding a map documenting my travels thus far.
I can be read all to easily.
I finish my coffee and am out the door in fifteen minutes. There is already a ticket on my van despite the fact that the meters aren't set to be policed until 10. I groan all too loudly, attracting the sidewalk patrons as I stomp over to the van. I grab the ticket and collapse into the driver's seat.
$2.
Should have rammed that beam.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
West Des Moines, IA
He’s gripping a nearly empty Budweiser in one hand and a recently uncapped Fat Tire in the other. He leans forward from the stool setting both of them on the floor and steps forward to the man seated across from him on a similar wooden stool, gripping the man’s head in his grease covered hands.
“Bald spot in that graying hair, now I see it. Vanity is fleeting, wisdom is forever. Don’t dye your hair.”
He releases his grip on the man’s head and chuckles.
“Funny thing is they told me that in AA.”
“Not to dye your hair?” I nod upwards towards his shiny bald head.
“No, smartass, the wisdom bit.”
He sits back down, finishing off the Budweiser and tossing it towards the towering trash can to his left. He misses. The can rattles on the floor and rolls towards a bench. There are four empty cans already residing underneath it.
He turns my way, “How old are you, 26-27?”
I shake my head no. “You give me too much credit.”
“Got any kids?”
Again, I shake my head no. “I live out of that van out there.”
He picks up the beer and leans in to cheers me. I curve my wrist bringing the beer in towards me.
“Isn’t that a picture of your kid on the wall, licking that trainer?”
He lets a laugh slip and leans in.
“I love him. Don’t think I don’t. But if someone would have told me, actually told me, how much work a kid entails. Well, I don’t know. We might have had a talk about it. Just makes me want to apologize to my parents if I was anything like he is. People tell you how hard it is and, believe me, it is 150 times harder.”
I stand up and walk towards a photo pinned above the workbench to my right. The shop is a cluttered seek-n-find, the ultimate Where’s Waldo of bike shops. I want to photograph the walls and create a puzzle for my niece & nephews, (Find a three gallon jug of cheese balls, two microwaves, hockey equipment, three calendars, thirteen hammers, seven pool cues, four jars of beer bottle caps) but the scandalous is intertwined with the more typical bike shop findings.
I mistakenly tune back in to his next story of his colonoscopy and kidney stones, and use the time to collect my empties and bring them into the adjoining room towards an empty pile near the fridge. I spot the pool table the cues belong to, hiding underneath saddle bags and boxes of unopened apparel.
There’s something to be said for this clutter free, kid free, diesel chugging lifestyle of mine. Not quite sure what exactly it is yet.
“Bald spot in that graying hair, now I see it. Vanity is fleeting, wisdom is forever. Don’t dye your hair.”
He releases his grip on the man’s head and chuckles.
“Funny thing is they told me that in AA.”
“Not to dye your hair?” I nod upwards towards his shiny bald head.
“No, smartass, the wisdom bit.”
He sits back down, finishing off the Budweiser and tossing it towards the towering trash can to his left. He misses. The can rattles on the floor and rolls towards a bench. There are four empty cans already residing underneath it.
He turns my way, “How old are you, 26-27?”
I shake my head no. “You give me too much credit.”
“Got any kids?”
Again, I shake my head no. “I live out of that van out there.”
He picks up the beer and leans in to cheers me. I curve my wrist bringing the beer in towards me.
“Isn’t that a picture of your kid on the wall, licking that trainer?”
He lets a laugh slip and leans in.
“I love him. Don’t think I don’t. But if someone would have told me, actually told me, how much work a kid entails. Well, I don’t know. We might have had a talk about it. Just makes me want to apologize to my parents if I was anything like he is. People tell you how hard it is and, believe me, it is 150 times harder.”
I stand up and walk towards a photo pinned above the workbench to my right. The shop is a cluttered seek-n-find, the ultimate Where’s Waldo of bike shops. I want to photograph the walls and create a puzzle for my niece & nephews, (Find a three gallon jug of cheese balls, two microwaves, hockey equipment, three calendars, thirteen hammers, seven pool cues, four jars of beer bottle caps) but the scandalous is intertwined with the more typical bike shop findings.
I mistakenly tune back in to his next story of his colonoscopy and kidney stones, and use the time to collect my empties and bring them into the adjoining room towards an empty pile near the fridge. I spot the pool table the cues belong to, hiding underneath saddle bags and boxes of unopened apparel.
There’s something to be said for this clutter free, kid free, diesel chugging lifestyle of mine. Not quite sure what exactly it is yet.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Des Moines, IA
It’s mid-afternoon and I am sitting in my underwear in an ill lit hotel room. I’ve refused to surrender the bed. Having sacrificed power to the clock radio in order to charge my computer, I’m able to be convinced the light outlining the pinstriped drapes is from a street light lamp, or the glow of Christ watching over me, anything but a mid-days sun. Exhaustion from the week found me last night, hovering over a high-top table, gripping flavorless pale ale, in Des Moines.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Minneapolis, MN
He’s pacing back and forth in the room. Turning a corner, he appears out of the corner of my right eye for a moment, before turning around back through the hallway, song lyrics echoing with him. He reappears on my left heading towards the kitchen. He’s carrying a hot glue gun, inserted in which is a foot long tube of hardened glue. I look up from my keyboard and he asks,
“What’s that name of that Africa song, by Toto?”
“Africa.”
“Yeah… Africa.”
A light turns on in the hall. I hear him laugh. Moments later he’s back in the living room with his hands above his head, mimicking the cheers of an applauding crowd. He puts a Pearl Jam 45 on the record player and continues on into the kitchen, the electrical tail of the glue gun, trailing behind him.
“I fixed that towel holder,” he says disappearing around the stove, his head peaks out, the open window behind him making his six foot figure a mere silhouette in the doorway. He looks at me, letting slip a low and quiet giggle.
He disappears to the other side of the doorway and I’m wondering if he’s setting down the gun, maybe going to sit at the kitchen table and study a bit, maybe he’ll make a sandwich. But I know better, he’s thinking of something else to glue.
His darkened shadow reappears in the door, “Fixed the Sea Man lamp.” The room fills with Pearl Jam and I hear him mutter; “Now he’ll never get away.”
He stares up at the blinds. For a moment I watch him, face scrunching into a puzzled look, out of the corner of my eye. My keyboard intertwining with Eddie Vedder’s vocals.
“No,” he says, turning back towards the kitchen, gun lowering to his side, “Tape would work better.”
“What’s that name of that Africa song, by Toto?”
“Africa.”
“Yeah… Africa.”
A light turns on in the hall. I hear him laugh. Moments later he’s back in the living room with his hands above his head, mimicking the cheers of an applauding crowd. He puts a Pearl Jam 45 on the record player and continues on into the kitchen, the electrical tail of the glue gun, trailing behind him.
“I fixed that towel holder,” he says disappearing around the stove, his head peaks out, the open window behind him making his six foot figure a mere silhouette in the doorway. He looks at me, letting slip a low and quiet giggle.
He disappears to the other side of the doorway and I’m wondering if he’s setting down the gun, maybe going to sit at the kitchen table and study a bit, maybe he’ll make a sandwich. But I know better, he’s thinking of something else to glue.
His darkened shadow reappears in the door, “Fixed the Sea Man lamp.” The room fills with Pearl Jam and I hear him mutter; “Now he’ll never get away.”
He stares up at the blinds. For a moment I watch him, face scrunching into a puzzled look, out of the corner of my eye. My keyboard intertwining with Eddie Vedder’s vocals.
“No,” he says, turning back towards the kitchen, gun lowering to his side, “Tape would work better.”
Monday, April 6, 2009
Minneapolis, MN
Five of us walk towards the car, still laughing over an evening of wait staff harassment, personal insults, and pop culture quotes. He turns sharply to the left yelling clear across the parking lot to our sister-in-law as she reaches her car,
“I hate you! I hope you get into a car accident on the way home and only you die!”
Eyes tearing from our heads, we choke back chuckles between gasps, grabbing the bellies we’ve already made sore with Italian food and quick wit.
We’ve never been the “I love you”, sort; the “See you soon” “Have a great night” Cleaver sort of family. Our own translators have been imbedded into our minds from birth, conjugating “You’ve gotten fatter” directly into “Great to see you.” “You haven’t died yet?” merely being the informal/personal adaptation of “I’m glad you could make it!”
Introducing a significant other to this sort of environment is like switching from a hot tub back into the pool. You have to take it all once. It’s not merely sink or swim, it’s learning to walk on water or strapping on cement shoes.
Welcome to the deep end, start looking for a warm spot.
“I hate you! I hope you get into a car accident on the way home and only you die!”
Eyes tearing from our heads, we choke back chuckles between gasps, grabbing the bellies we’ve already made sore with Italian food and quick wit.
We’ve never been the “I love you”, sort; the “See you soon” “Have a great night” Cleaver sort of family. Our own translators have been imbedded into our minds from birth, conjugating “You’ve gotten fatter” directly into “Great to see you.” “You haven’t died yet?” merely being the informal/personal adaptation of “I’m glad you could make it!”
Introducing a significant other to this sort of environment is like switching from a hot tub back into the pool. You have to take it all once. It’s not merely sink or swim, it’s learning to walk on water or strapping on cement shoes.
Welcome to the deep end, start looking for a warm spot.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Jefferson City, MO
Waking up to a phone call is worse than waking up to an alarm. When you set an alarm at least you have a general idea of when you will be getting up, give or take a few snoozes. But having family on the East coast and the company I work for on the West coast, there’s a lot of adding and subtracting involved in figuring out who might have been calling me at 9:00 under the assumption I’d be actively conscious. I kept an eye open waiting for my voicemail to chime so I can figure out the mystery caller. Most bike shops support the ethos of bountiful sleep and beer, not opening until 10 or later. No chime. Too awake to go back to sleep.
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