The stereotype is correct. The English love cheese. Seriously. I didn’t know it was possible to have a 2-hour conversation purely dedicated to cheese. The curdling, the storing, the moulds, the melt, the types, the consumption…Meanwhile, Bollywood music drifted into the hotel restaurant from the balcony for a monthly social event for the local Dalhousie college students. I could hear them laughing, singing and dancing. And there we were… talking cheese. It even continued into the next day on our trek into the fresh pine forest at 3000m above sea level when Tom (who is also English) learnt that he had missed out on our cheese conversation and excitedly listed all these great French cheese fondue boutiques all around the world. Then soon after, on a soft, grass-laden terrace with amazing views of the mountainous landscape, it was revealed in conversation that Porcelain Joelle was once hit and bruised by a wheel of cheese. She was watching the massive annual event in England where a bunch of (otherwise rational) people risk their lives chasing a huge cheese chunk down a rocky, grassy, 45 degree angle hillside.
So by the end of it all, it was appropriate for me to have cut the cheese for laughing so bloody hard.
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