They speak of food, of water and sometimes of pollution. Whenever they talk of politics, the third one moves further away. He doesn't want to hear it. Doesn't care to get involved.
On occasion they speak of the places they've been, and like always, they only recall the good points of the trip, like the fountain in the town square, with its endless supply of cold drinking water, and bath water, should you be so inclined.
They remember the open windows, with their smells of fresh bread. Oh, how they love bread. That conversation always seems to bring them back to that time a kid was feeding them French fries, until his mother yelled at him. Then the father tossed one out, looking at the kid and winking.
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