Dreams of a three-day tourist visa

Bunburying: term introduced by Oscar Wilde in the play The Importance of Being Earnest. The art of inventing a sickly friend in need of assistance, as a clever means of dodging unwanted social engagements.

Our 10 days guests finally left. We’ve been gracious hosts, they had a good time, and everybody’s happy. As for me, I’m enjoying every single second of this Hegelian progression from bondage to freedom. Not that I don’t like company. But perhaps I've worked for the Israelis for too long; I’m not a big fan of territorial concessions.

The aggravating factor of our last guests’ stay is called: The Garrulous Wife. Her trivial ramblings accompanied us throughout our hosting experience, which under these devastating circumstances normally follows a pretty standard path, like this:

• day one is when your guests say thank you and please all the time, and ask permission to go to the bathroom;

• by day three every time I come home I have to introduce myself: “Hi my name is Silvia and I live here”;

• when on day four dinner starts with the ins and outs of her colitis, you realize you would have been better off in the hands of a bunch of Iranian or Chechen kidnappers. Next you stay up all night trying to sell your guests on Craiglist;

• day five is when you make an attempt to scare them by interrupting the conversation several times “Shhh… my mother’s dead uncle is telling me something” ;

• day six is when you actually agree with everything your mother’s dead uncle tells you;

• days seven to ten are just fine. You feel like you just had a lobotomy.

Garrulous Wife was put on a plane back home on Sunday at 6.30 p.m., after she told me about ten times I ‘aaaaaabsolutely’ have to go to her place for dinner this summer, and made me swear I will. I said yes. Anything to see her leave. As for this summer, I will have no choice but to commit the Bunbury.