I always try to get a hotel with breakfast included. I love breakfast as a typical lark, and continental breakfasts even more so.

Scrambled eggs, sandwiches, buttered toast, cashews, cottage cheese, jam, muffin, black coffee, a slice of kiwi and there's your life playing with new colors.

Did I mention the scrambled eggs? Yeah, that's right. I like fried eggs with undercooked yolks.

And that's where the catch is. The catch with continental breakfast. Because I don't know how to eat scrambled eggs this nice. The yolk is the most flavorful part of the egg. And it drips out at any unexpected moment.

I'm going to breakfast with joy, but before the eggs I'm worried. How to eat it this time? Will there be breakfast people around? Should I use a fork or a spoon? Will the yolk spread on the plate, will it drip on my shirt, will I smear my face in it like a child?

The whole world stops, all sleepy eyes around at this very moment looking at the Slav's battle of the Slav with the egg.

The dining room was not crowded today. I was fresh, cold washed and combed. The night before, I had practiced grabbing the scrambled eggs and was confident of a filigree performance.

The waitress's gaze was challenging. I took a fork, picked up a slice of scrambled egg, and put it in my mouth.

Touchdown.

The men nodded approvingly, the women looked on eagerly.

As I sit here now writing this post, I realize that I, in my 44th year, am happy to have beaten the egg.