Remembering my Interview with “Baby Doc” Duvalier: On the Occasion of his Death


Until the last-minute I didn’t believe it would happen. As we wound our way up the dark, mountain road into the hills outside of Port-au-Prince, I didn’t know what to expect.  I had read that Baby Doc lived on Montagne Noir, but we weren’t headed in that direction.

Wondering if we would be searched when we arrived at Duvalier’s house, my friend Kate, who had agreed to accompany me to meet Baby Doc, removed a pocket knife from her purse and left it with our Haitian driver, just in case.

I, on the other hand, was more worried more about what I was wearing than the pending interview.  It was easier that way.  I had ironed two outfits, but ended up wearing a knee-length plum skirt and sleeveless blouse just a shade lighter (one I had tailored when we were living in Vietnam). I hung a striped silk scarf from India around my neck and carried a purple pouch purse from Bangkok over my shoulder—something small, but something to hold what I assumed would be the essentials—a notebook, pen, and camera, one that refused to work properly when I tried to document the event.

Perhaps this couture consciousness was a decent distraction from the seriousness to come, but my attention returned to the drive—our endless, winding ride—as our Toyota SUV rendezvoused with our friend Richard and his friend Fito in a white pick-up truck.  This would be the final leg of the journey.

We passed the home of Rene Preval, then the president of Haiti, and stopped just before Duvalier’s road, so Fito could call ahead to announce that we were almost there.

Passing a rather grand-looking, well-lit house of the left, we continued down the street a bit, before turning around and circling back to that same stone house, now on our right. This was it, we assumed, but there were a number of cars out front. Was there a party in progress?

We were met at the gate and ushered in along the driveway, where two vehicles were parked, one an SUV, the other, a Haitian State Police pick-up truck, but no officer in sight. As we approached the front door, we passed floor-to-ceiling windows that looked into the living room, where a number of people were gathered on two off-white couches that faced one another. Duvalier’s Italian wife, Veronique Roy, cigarette in hand, answered the door when we knocked, welcomed us in, and escorted us onto a covered patio to the left, where she offered us something to drink, and when we declined, promptly left.

We were seated at an octagonal, wooden table with white wrought iron chairs, when Baby Doc himself stepped out onto the patio, wearing a charcoal, double-breasted blazer over a cable knit, gray sweater that zipped at the neck.  He seemed smaller, thinner, and more stiff-necked than I’d expected.

Kate, Jean-Claude Duvalier, Fito, Kathy (March 2011)

Kate, Jean-Claude Duvalier, Fito, Kathy (March 2011)

Once introductions were made and we were re-seated around the table, Richard did most of the talking and functioned as translator, explaining to Duvalier that I was intrigued by the former president and had hoped to meet him before leaving Port-au-Prince and moving back to the US the following Monday.

Baby Doc, who spoke to us only in French, said he didn’t want to talk about the current political situation in Haiti. Instead he explained how happy he was to be back in Haiti, how saddened he was by the deplorable conditions his people were living in, and how surprised he was by the warm welcome he’d received, especially from young people who hadn’t even been alive when he was president.

I asked the former dictator how he thought the current Haitian suffering could be alleviated.

Duvalier explained that there was no single or easy answer, but that “unity” was essential, unity between the rich and poor, between those who have much and those who have so little, that the government of Haiti needed to give the people “what they want,” and largely that involved not allowing them to live in such inhumane conditions.

Clearly, his was an easy answer—a rhetoric few could disagree with—but I didn’t press the issue further. I knew my question was overly broad and understood why he’d answered in equally sweeping terms.

But I could feel myself being pulled in. Baby Doc was feeding me what he knew I wanted to hear. He and I both knew it, but I couldn’t help responding to what seemed genuine care and concern—his whispered tone, his furrowed brow, his leaning closer as he talked to me. I could almost watch myself falling for this rhetoric, and I was reeling because of it.

Still dizzied, I asked the former president what he thought made him unique, “Apart from your father having been president before you, when did you understand that you were unique in and of yourself, that you had something valuable to offer the country?”

Duvalier’s answer here surprised me, as he insisted that he was not “unique,” that he had come to the palace at age 6, that he’d had a great education, that when his father told him at 18 he would eventually be president, he had said, “No thank you!” He didn’t want to be president. He didn’t want that job.

So Kate asked what he thought his biggest accomplishment was as president. But Baby Doc said that when you’re president, all accomplishments are equally significant, because “everything you do is your job, your responsibility.” He went on to explain that he had left the country in 1986 and gone into exile willingly, to avoid bloodshed, that as he was leaving, he was more concerned about his people than he was about himself.

At this point, Richard turned to me and asked, “Don’t you have another question, you came here hoping to ask?”

“Yes,” I said looking intently at Duvalier across the table. “A number of people have told me things were more stable in Haiti, when you were president, and things are decidedly unstable now. I read in the media, that you have returned to Haiti not wanting to be president again, but if things were indeed more stable under your administration, why would you not want to be president again? Don’t you think you would have something valuable to offer your people?”

To this Duvalier said simply and matter-of-factly, “We’ll have to see what the people want.”

My conversation with Duvalier ended soon after that, but what the Haitian people wanted at that point was far from clear.  It was an unsettled time for Haiti.  Things weren’t even close to calm, as later that same week the head of one Haitian political party was assassinated in his home, former president Aristide, like Duvalier, returned to Haiti from exile in South Africa, and a final round of presidential elections were held.

But when I returned to the US the week following my interview with Duvalier, when I found myself trying to settle again in middle America after a year in Port-au-Prince and a year before that in Vietnam, I found myself still reeling from having met Baby Doc.  The encounter whirl-winded and exhausted me.  I felt depleted and confused by having liked the version of Duvalier I met that night.

I didn’t like the fact that Baby Doc, the man, had intrigued me, that the details around him had seemed so ordinary.  The fact that his house, though perhaps the grandest on his street, was not as spectacular as I had suspected it would be. The couches in the living room seemed old and worn. There were no fancy fixtures. The wrought iron chairs on the patio needed paint.

But then again, that’s what we all amount to in the end—the peeling paint, the nicks, the scars. The couches need recovering.

The story of Haiti is largely one of exile and variations on that theme—coerced comings and goings, arriving unwillingly on a tiny island, you then don’t want to leave.

So it was for Jean-Claude Duvalier, made president for life at age 19 when his father died, a job he didn’t want, a role he didn’t want to play. He ruled for 15 years, was exiled for 25, came home to Haiti again, and now, 3 years later,  has died of a heart attack at his home in Port-au-Prince.

Though Sara and I went willingly to Haiti and now live in Ecuador, we were not at all ready to leave, and having left felt like a loss, an amputation. Haiti is the phantom limb, the one I dream about, the one that calls to me at night.

Eventually, we all get kicked off one island or another. A tribal council is convened. The votes are cast.

And someone has to go–

Personal Update:  Sara and I have moved to our new home in Cuenca, but have only gotten our internet set up TWO days ago (long story).  Thanks to all of  my friends and followers for your patience during my absence.  I promise to visit you very soon!

94 thoughts on “Remembering my Interview with “Baby Doc” Duvalier: On the Occasion of his Death

  1. So excited when I saw that you had once again started posting again! You Kathy are a remarkable writer with incredible recollection and detail to your narrative.You still give me goosebumps. I too remember visiting Haiti several times from 1976 thru 1981 when working for a Cruise line. I was first struck not by the slums and poverty of the capital and the city of Cap Haitian but the incredible kindness/warmth of the Haitian people and NOT what they endured during 200 yr history of slavery to Independence to the vicious dictatorship of Papa Doc and thousands who fled to Miami and became my coworkers and friends. Doing the last few years David and I on cruises visit Labadee, Haiti a sliver of land which was carved out by RCL for a 5-6 hrs beach lay over. No slums but pristine beaches and beautiful mountains that have not been devastated by lumber companies. I have stood a few times on the beach of Labadee and pondered how sad that this incredible country can’t right itself! Keep writing Honey!

    Like

    • LOVE hearing about your memories of Haiti, Juan! I’ve not been to Labadee, but it sounds lovely. Yeah, the deforestation, sucks! Oh, well, now the dictator is dead! So strange to have met him. See you tomorrow, my friend. Yes, the Haitian people are kind, and why does it not surprise me that YOU would notice that?!

      Like

  2. I can’t even read this right now! I am too distracted in wanting to give you a huge ((HUG)) and welcome back. OMG I so missed! I promise I will read this and respond again later! So glad to see you!!

    Like

  3. First, it’s so GREAT to see you back!! Hugs, and I hope all is well with you and Sara. I remember when you first posted this, and thinking it was such an amazing event. Surreal, almost. It is still amazing.

    I’m so excited that you’re back! 🙂 You can tell that’s true because of all the exclamation points I’m using. lol!

    Like

    • Thank you so much, Robin! It’s good to be back. It’s been a LONGGGGGGGG, busy summer. Hope you are well, my friend. Glad you remembered this one. Well, maybe it’s not that hard to forget. LOL Hope you have had a great weekend!

      Like

  4. So good to see you here! So glad you’re well and happy, all moved in and finally back on line! This is a wonderful narrative about a fascinating event. Your telling of it is just right, and made me feel the tension as well as the misgivings. Are you familiar with Caroline Forsche? This reminds me a lot of her poem, “The Colonel.”

    Like

    • Thanks so much, Cindy. No, I do not know that poem. Will have to check it out.

      Yes, we are moved–not totally settled–but enough to now have wifi. Goodness, it has been a crazy summer. But, I’m glad to be back and so pleased you enjoyed this piece. It’s WONDERFUL to hear from you!!!!!

      Like

      • The Colonel
        WHAT YOU HAVE HEARD is true. I was in his house. His wife carried
        a tray of coffee and sugar. His daughter filed her nails, his son went
        out for the night. There were daily papers, pet dogs, a pistol on the
        cushion beside him. The moon swung bare on its black cord over
        the house. On the television was a cop show. It was in English.
        Broken bottles were embedded in the walls around the house to
        scoop the kneecaps from a man’s legs or cut his hands to lace. On
        the windows there were gratings like those in liquor stores. We had
        dinner, rack of lamb, good wine, a gold bell was on the table for
        calling the maid. The maid brought green mangoes, salt, a type of
        bread. I was asked how I enjoyed the country. There was a brief
        commercial in Spanish. His wife took everything away. There was
        some talk then of how difficult it had become to govern. The parrot
        said hello on the terrace. The colonel told it to shut up, and pushed
        himself from the table. My friend said to me with his eyes: say
        nothing. The colonel returned with a sack used to bring groceries
        home. He spilled many human ears on the table. They were like
        dried peach halves. There is no other way to say this. He took one
        of them in his hands, shook it in our faces, dropped it into a water
        glass. It came alive there. I am tired of fooling around he said. As
        for the rights of anyone, tell your people they can go fuck them-
        selves. He swept the ears to the floor with his arm and held the last
        of his wine in the air. Something for your poetry, no? he said. Some
        of the ears on the floor caught this scrap of his voice. Some of the
        ears on the floor were pressed to the ground.

        Like

    • Thank you, my friend. I know. It’s been a long two months–just glad to be back in the saddle, so to speak. I’m so happy to hear from you this weekend. Oh, and yes, it WAS, indeed, a fascinating experience!

      Like

  5. Hi Kathy! When I saw your comment on my post, I excitedly scrolled to my reader and voila!, this fabulous post! So happy to have to back.
    And what a fabulous experience it must have been. It is quite fascinating that you felt drawn in by him. But you here that sort of thing often don’t you? Dictators and rulers with that certain charm? I guess that’s part of the reason they manage to get away with what they do.
    Great to have you back!
    G xx

    Like

    • Oh, Gertie, you are such a sweetie. Hope you and your girls had a wonderful winter (southern hemisphere). It was strange to interview Duvalier and even stranger to half-like the guy. I’m delighted to hear from you, my friend! Thanks so much for reading.

      Like

    • Thanks for the welcome back, my friend. Can’t tell you how good it feels to have posted something. It was a long break–probably too long–but it was hard to really think about blogging until we had wifi, which we got only on Thursday. Hope you are enjoying a wonderful weekend!

      Like

  6. Hi Kathy! It’s good to see you back again. Looking forward to your “adventures in moving” posts. Whenever you write about Haiti the tug at your heart comes through. Clearly there’s something special about that island for you. It’s quite the talent to convey that feeling, even writing about something like Baby Doc. Hope you and Sara are settling in to the new place and we’ll hear from you more regularly.

    Like

    • Dear, dear Lisa, how happy I am to read your comment. You all have been so patient with me this summer. I’m looking forward to writing about the months I’ve been away and the big move we made. Hope you are well, my friend! Thanks for stopping by! I can’t quite believe how long I’ve been “gone.” Oh, and the stories about wifi–you’re gonna love that! LOL

      Like

  7. I was tickled pink to receive a notification via email that you had posted again — whoohoo! And while you have been out of the saddle for a while, you certainly haven’t lost your touch. Welcome back!

    Like

    • Thank you so much, Laurie. I’m happy to be back and even happier to not have lost my touch. At the same time, I wrote this piece a good while ago–just after our return from Haiti and decided to repost it in light of Duvalier’s death. Hope you had a lovely weekend, my friend.

      Like

  8. It is always so good to see you pop up in my email notifications with a new post. This was so intriguing and told so effortlessly; it really had us feeling like we were elbow to elbow with you as you met him. Especially the part about being “depleted and confused by having liked who you met that night”. We’ve all been in the company of someone like that – someone who gets under our skin, even when we resist their charms.

    Like

    • Ah, you have said it SO well, my friend–the effort to resist their charms, etc. You SO get it, don’t you?

      It’s wonderful to hear from you, too! Hope you are well. Hope you had a great summer and a lovely weekend. Thank you SO much for stopping by when you got the email!

      Like

  9. I was so happy to see you come up in my e-mail I wiggled in my chair!

    This was intriguing. I could see how he could pull anyone in, he carried power from a very young age and was raised to it. I would guess he was a fascinating man.

    Loved the ending my friend. I am so happy to see your return. Kisses and hugs to both of you!

    Like

    • Oh, Val, SO, SO happy to hear from you! You are dear, you know that, right? I SO appreciate your emailing me while I was away. And now I have even made it past your firewall! Hugs and kisses to you, too. Hope all is well in Texas!

      Like

    • Thank you, Jackie. Wonderful to hear from you. It was a crazy summer–and something I need to write about soon. Hope you and Reggie are well. I feel SO out of the loop–don’t know what’s been going on in anyone’s lives all summer. I will catch up soon.

      Like

  10. Hi Kathy,
    I found your blog on my husband’s computer because I was having computer problems. What a great find! I have to say that Pete has great literary and adventure taste. What a moment in time–thanks for sharing it.
    Writing certainly lets you inside a person fast. Your adventures and their retelling continue to enthral me.
    Thanks for sharing the new penthouse digs with me the other day. It looks like you and your partner will have projects a plenty for a while.
    Kris

    Like

    • Oh, wow, Kris, SOOOOOO happy to get your comment! Thrilled you enjoyed this piece! And it was an honor to show you around our new place last week. See you, Wednesday, I hope! It’s so good to have you back in town!

      Like

  11. I don’t know much about this part of the world, Kathy, except when it’s in the news due to hurricanes or other calamities. So I didn’t even know Baby Doc was still alive. My favorite line in this post is, “But then again, that’s what we all amount to in the end—the peeling paint, the nicks, the scars. The couches need recovering.” That has a pitch-perfect ring to it. Welcome back, my friend. I hope you tell us how it was that you were able to survive this long without access to the internet. I spent many years of my life living without it, before it existed, but now that I have it, it’d be like giving up water. Okay, that’s an exaggeration, but you get my drift. 🙂

    Like

    • Oh, it’s a long story. I was forced to steal a signal from our neighbor, but it was very intermittent–completely unreliable. I just couldn’t bear to blog when I had no idea when I would be able to get online. Plus, in the center of town, where we have moved, the government has a monopoly on internet service provision, so they have NO incentive to install in a timely manner. I’m just glad to have it now.

      Wonderful to hear from you, Monica. I’m so happy to be back. Thanks for stopping by!

      Like

  12. Kathy your life amazes me. Mesmerizes me actually. I admire your adventure. Your color. Your spice. I don’t know much about the political world you are so in tune with, but I think I would more inclined to learn when you explain the people to me.

    Like

  13. I admit not knowing much about Haiti, but this post cast a sense of eeriness on me.

    I figured your absence was move related. Then again, it was longer than I would expect. Then again, it’s Ecuador. 🙂 Nonetheless, you appearance at my party was both a surprise and special, thus perfect timing. Take your time getting back into the swing of things … after all, from the comments above, many are happy to have you posting again. Welcome back!

    Like

  14. This post made me wonder what it would be like to interview a person like this. We know him only from the media reports which told of oppression and brutality. But you met him and have told us about your interview with him. It hasn’t changed my view of the man but thank you for showing us the other side of him.

    Like

    • Thanks for reading and considering the ordinary-ness of this guy in his old age–sad–sick–and living with scarred furniture and peeling paint. I suspect he was still capable of brutality–but seeing him in his home threw my stereotypical (if accurate?) perspective for a loop! So wonderful to hear from you, my friend!

      Like

  15. My dear Kathy,

    So very interesting and intimately presented.

    “But then again, that’s all we amount to in the end – the peeling paint, the nicks, the scars. The couches needing recovering.” I love that paragraph.

    So very good to find your post here.

    Cheers,

    R.

    Like

    • I’m so happy to hear from you, Robert! Interestingly, several folks seemed to have appreciated the same part. I suppose those lines are true for most of us. I could sure use some recovering right about now! LOL

      Hope your week has gotten off to a great start! And thanks so much for stopping by!

      Like

    • Well, you know, he was pretty much a brutal dictator, but he sure didn’t look like much of one by the time I met him–though, God only knows what one is supposed to look like! LOL I suppose not much like you or me. Hope you and Tara are well. Thanks for stopping by!

      Like

  16. What a remarkable experience, Kathy. No matter my curiosity, I don’t think I’d have had the guts to pursue the interview. I am moved by your love for Haiti. It’s a country that needs some love, I think. You’ve a lifetime of off-the-beaten path adventures, and it’s so good to see you publishing again. I hope the move has continued to bring you much happiness and a settledness…for now, at least. 🙂 Looking forward to photos! Debra

    Like

    • Yes, I need to post photos of the new place and will, as soon as all of the boxes are unpacked and pictures are hung. What can I say? It’s been a long process.

      Glad you enjoyed this piece, Debra. It’s wonderful to hear from you today!

      Like

  17. I enjoyed reading this, Kathy. You have had so many interesting experiences. One thing I like about your writing is that you walk tentatively with the “truth” allowing the reader to input his/her own feelings and thought. You show that it’s not always a clear-cut issue, but has many forks and eddies. Sometimes I want to believe people because I like them and don’t always consider all the implications. It’s good to see you back in the blogging world. (About the time I am contemplating a break!)

    Like

    • How funny–I’m back–you’re ready for a break! Sometimes only time away will provide the energy needed to ultimately continue. And I’m so pleased you enjoyed this piece. I especially appreciate your referring to truth as having “many forks and eddies.” Brilliantly said, my friend–and lovely image. It’s great to touch base today, at least. I’m trying to catch up now, with months lost to the bloggers I love! Thanks for reading, Kathy!

      Like

  18. Pingback: Remembering my Interview with Jean-Claude Duvalier: On the Occasion of His Death | Omaha Sun Times

    • Gosh, isn’t that the truth! We finally got our wifi on Thursday and got the extenders installed to get it through the entire house just last night. I’m learning about living according to a slower clock–and learning it slowly, as well! Your piece about the blogosphere redefining our sense of friendship and loss–your memorial, of sorts, was stunning! Hugs to you, my dear! I’m proud to call you my friend!

      Like

  19. Welcome back, Kathy! What you wrote here makes me wonder how well anyone can truly know another – and we’re all such complicated creatures who are always growing and and responding to changes in our environments – it gets more and more difficult to label people with this or that quality or motive. It was fascinating reading about your reactions to your meeting with Duvalier. What an experience!

    Like

    • Thanks you so much for reading, Barbara. You make an excellent point about how hard it is to know another, but in some instances, even difficult to know ourselves, perhaps. I hadn’t really thought too much about either, until I read your comment. It was an amazing experience to interview Baby Doc. I’m so happy to hear from you today!

      Like

  20. Sometimes you forget that historically important people are people.
    Astute observation this: “But then again, that’s what we all amount to in the end—the peeling paint, the nicks, the scars. The couches need recovering.”
    Intriguing post

    Like

    • Yes, yes, that’s what was so intriguing to me–to see the utter ordinariness of this infamous man. It was almost disorienting–like I had stepped over a line I hadn’t intended to.

      So great to hear from you today, my friend. Hope you are well. As always, thanks for stopping by!

      Liked by 1 person

    • Oh, thank you so much, Katybeth. It’s wonderful to be back. I had anticipated being gone for so long, but now that we have wifi again, I should be around regularly. Great to hear from you today. Thank God you got your water back!!!!!

      Like

  21. Oh, boy! I am so glad I found your blog. What a fantastic experience (s) you have had. And your writing is so well crafted that I may as well have been there with you. I always wanted to meet Fidel Castro and Pierre Trudeau. I was always stuck, however, on what I would say to them – what I would ask if I were to ever meet them. I can see that “exhaustion” would be my end result as well. I love your honest questions and am thrillled too with the response. I would be so wishing for a “nice” answer too. It’s funny how our mental image of a person we have never met can be so much a part of our own selves, that the loss of that image could lead to “phantom limb” as you referenced. I loved reading your story. Thank-you.

    Like

    • Thank you so much for your kind comment. It’s so interesting to hear that you wondered what you might say were you to meet someone like Castro. I was VERY worried about what I was going to say/ask–and I was half scared that I was walking too near a black hole from which I’d never emerge. Yes, it was exhausting, but I’m still not sure why. At any rate, I’m delighted you enjoyed my piece. I have certainly enjoyed your comment. Thank you–and I hope you are having a lovely Thursday!

      Liked by 1 person

  22. Welcome back, Kathy! Missed you. And you’re back with impact. Beautifully written. I find it interesting, the interview part — the preparation, the trepidation, and — I was always sure to take an extra pen. Often I asked for existing photos of the subject or a staff photographer took them. But I never interviewed anyone of such status or intrigue. Also, as my friend Robert pointed out, the lines that stood out for me, too, sum up the human condition no matter what one’s status: “But then again, that’s what we all amount to in the end—the peeling paint, the nicks, the scars. The couches need recovering.”

    Too, I wonder that you must often revisit Haiti in your dreams. I wonder what is the emotional hold it has for you subconsciously.

    Well done. Hugs from Delaware.

    Like

    • Thank you for your sweet comment! It’s good to be back. It’s good to have wifi. And we now have it throughout the entire house–not easy to get, since the walls are crazy thick!

      The fact of the matter is, that the staff did take a photo, but I was not able to get a copy of it. And, since, we were leaving in a couple of days, I was reluctant to push for it. I was half scared. Weird?

      I guess the entire experience kind of unsettled me.

      And, yes, I would go back to Haiti one day. I adore Ecuador, but Haiti nags at my psyche and may until the day I die. Will have to write more about that one of these day.

      I’m so happy to hear from you, my friend. Hope you have a lovely weekend. Bet you are getting some beautiful color in your neck of the woods about now!

      Like

  23. “unity” was essential, unity between the rich and poor, between those who have much and those who have so little****

    I like that.

    Interesting. Intriguing. Amazing. I savored this.

    Kathy,
    Every single time I click in to your universe, I feel richer having been here.

    xx

    Like

  24. I love this story, Kathy, and the clean beautiful writing. I also really appreciate the way you always give glimpses and insights into the paradoxes of human nature and reality. I look forward to hearing more about your time in Haiti,

    Like

    • Manya, you are a dear! Can’t thank you enough for stopping by and reading my piece. I really, really appreciate your positive comment, as I SO respect you as a writer and thinker. Hope you have a lovely weekend. Sara and I look forward to having lunch on Tuesday!

      Like

  25. I’ve missed you Kathy, I’m so glad to have you back, happy you’re now settled in and I can look forward to your insightful writing. I learn so much as I read about your adventures, you have such a wonderful way of introducing us to the most colorful characters from your past.

    Like

    • Oh, I’ve missed you, too. It’s good to be back and active in the blogosphere. It’s been a long summer of moving and settling into a new home. Boy, am I glad that part is over! Glad you enjoy reading about my adventures, my friend! Thanks SO much for stopping by!

      Like

    • Oh, I could never do that. There’s much more to love there beyond our Wi-Fi status. But I DO miss fast internet! I REALLY miss it! Sorry it has taken me so long to respond to your comment. Hope you are having a wonderful week.

      Like

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s