We were marks for the local sketch artist who made a big scene about rendering Ingrid's picture. It was 11am but he looked like he'd already had a few cocktails. He didn't want to deal with me, dismissing me with a hand motion and saying '2 meters, 2 meters,' with contempt for my height. He shouted 'Ingrid, Ingrid' and had a big circle around him as he charcoaled a pretty good likeness of the Ing. And he only charged us a single US dollar.
Ingrid was totally pooped by the time we got back to the hotel. We got into the lobby of our boutique inn and Ingrid made herself comfortable on the antique chaise lounge.
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