Interesting conversations at the tables around me, here in the Pilothouse Restaurant, downstairs from our room at the Delta King hotel.

The table of four to my left is reading their horoscopes from the newspaper. It's a five-star day for Sandy, who is advised to ""stay cool" and "use your head."

The French woman, table of three, is displeased because her oatmeal didn't come with a sufficient number of "seasonal berries." I admire her facility with the English language, specifically the phrase, "and I'm still missing my orange juice." I also admire her necklace of large turquoise beads.

The party of voluble Italians has left the restaurant, and their tables separated and reset. Two middle-aged men are there, discussing a woman they know, who apparently "has never looked worse."

The Keelhauler has left to take his test. I'm here with a plate of French toast, the girl in the corner typing into her phone.

I would type more about the oddly patrician accent of the man who just sat down at the next table. He is wearing a camouflage uniform reading US AIR FORCE, as is his female companion. He sounds like he should be dicussing yachting and women named Muffy. I would, as I say, write more about him, but my breakfast is getting cold.

Star of the day. . .Mark Twain