It was mid April and I was in Newport, RI. It was the perfect time to visit, after the bitterness of the winter cold and before the massive onrush of the summer tourists. The weather was pleasant, a warm day cooled by a soft offshore breeze. Waves gently lapped the rocks along the coast making for a chronic, yet light, crashing sound. I came to tour the historic mansions from the American Guilded Age, envisioning a peaceful and relaxing weekday. However, as common with spontaneous trips, strange adventures have a way of finding you.
It was Hasid Day at Newport. Men with black yarmulkes and curly locks of hair near their ears lined filled the streets with their long-skirted wives and children in tow. Their well-pressed white shirts and black pants offered stark contrast to the colorful lawns and gardens of the summer “cottages” of some of America’s wealthiest tycoons. I happened to have purchased the last ticket to the 3 o’clock tour of the Vanderbilt’s summer cottage and found myself surrounded by an entire congregation of Hasidic Jews, complete with a waddling rabbi. As a Chinaman, it made me feel very conspicuous and out of place as I tried my best to fit into this crowd. I had misread my calendar, thinking today was China Days at Newport, and had arrived wearing a bright-red royal robe from the Qing Dynasty, complete with a Fu Manchu moustache.
Our tour began uneventfully, as the crowd did its best to smile and make me feel comfortable. One of the fathers was carrying his young son who was eating a Hamentaschen. The kid made an offering gesture and, not wanting to be rude, I graciously accepted his treat. I began munching on it when we entered into the great hall. Our tour guide stopped in the middle of his talk and glared at me. “Excuse me! Can you understand English?!? I said at the beginning no eating on this tour! Put it away or I will have to ask you to leave!” I blushed and quickly stuffed the half-eaten pastry into my pocket on my overly large sleeve.
Feeling slighted, I plotted my revenge. As we were walking between rooms, I tapped the father who was holding his now sleeping son and motioned to a room we had not toured. When we were alone, I pulled out my pocket sledgehammer and smashed a hole into a heave mahogany door. Before the father could react, I grabbed his kid out of his arms and put the sledgehammer in its stead. Frantically, the tour guide ran in, looked at the hole, saw a sleeping kid wrapped around the sleeves of my robe, and kicked out wide-eyed Hasidic Jew holding the sledgehammer, banning him from ever returning. The rest of the tour was very informative if rather uneventful. When it was over, I was glad I did it, but I was stuck with a sleeping kid wearing a Yarmulke.
Not knowing what to do, I went to the center of town and bought him some saltwater taffy. I am a firm believer that saltwater taffy tastes better if it was made on a wharf above the ocean. There is something about the essence of salt water in the air that enhances the taste. Unfortunately, the Newport saltwater taffy was made on land, so it was not such a high-quality delicacy. However, a few days later, I visited Rockport MA, where they do sell saltwater taffy made over the ocean. It was delicious. But unfortunately, I once again misread my calendar. It was Qing Dynasty day in Rockport and I was dressed as a Hasidic Jew.
Thursday, May 08, 2008
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Eviler Emily
Eviler Emily awoke to the sound of her alarm clock blaring in its usual annoying fashion. Brightness strewed through her window as an indication of the start of a new day. She groaned as she rolled out of bed, a noisy complaint on her tiredness. Today was the day of the big history test and she was in no way prepared. She began the brushing of her teeth, the combing of her hair and the general ritual of making herself into an attractive teenager. As she made her way downstairs, she smelled the sweet aroma of coffee and she finally began to wake up.
You see, there were three Emilys at Central Valley High and each had nicknames to tell them apart. Eviler Emily was actually one of the most generous girls in all of the school. The night before, her best friend threw a party and invited the entire sophomore class, of whom most of which attended. Eviler Emily knew it would be a major undertaking and so she volunteered to help. While her classmates binged on beer and vodka, she spent the party bartending and diligently mixing the drinks. While her classmates complained of the munchies, she would order out for pizza and Chinese food to satisfy the urges. And while her friends complained of headaches and the onset of the inevitable hangover, she laid them down as comfortably as she could.
As she got off the bus to Central Valley High, she ran into her best friend, Evilest Emily. She looked just as sleep deprived, if not more so. Evilest Emily was probably the most generous girl in the entire school. Whenever Evilest Emily’s parents were out of town, she would host massive after-hours parties. So many people would be invited that there would hardly be any standing space. She would always find a way to supply the alcohol no matter what the situation and there was always an endless supply of it. She never asked anyone to bring anything in return. Since her parents were out of town fairly regularly, the parties she throws have gained a reputation for being a large orgy of drunken bacchanalian debauchery. Only Eviler Emily ever helped out because the two girls really enjoyed entertaining their classmates.
They caught up a little at their lockers and walked into their history classroom. Most of their classmates in the rooms were nursing their massive hangovers from the night before and by the looks of it, very few had a chance to study for the exam. The class gave a collective groan as the clock struck 8AM and their teacher, the third and final Emily at their school, stormed in with a fit of rage. Evil Emily, as they called her, was clearly on a rampage with smoke coming out of her ears and fire spewing from her mouth. Her deadly glare would bore into the students as she went to tear into each and every student about their attitudes. When she got to the two Emilys, she stopped her diatribe and a smile broke out over her face. “Class,” she said. “You are lucky that you have two wonderfully evil students in your class to bring down your average. Why can’t you all be more like them?”
You see, Center Valley High was also known as the Devil’s Vocational School and Evil Emily was the Principle. She immediately began to heap praises on Eviler and Evilest Emily as the instigator of the party that would allow the rest of the class to fail the history final. Without them, an inordinate number of students would actually pass. The class gave groans of appreciation and was glad to have such good peers that watched out for their wellbeing. Eviler and Evilest Emily smiled at each other. They loved being the teacher’s pets.
You see, there were three Emilys at Central Valley High and each had nicknames to tell them apart. Eviler Emily was actually one of the most generous girls in all of the school. The night before, her best friend threw a party and invited the entire sophomore class, of whom most of which attended. Eviler Emily knew it would be a major undertaking and so she volunteered to help. While her classmates binged on beer and vodka, she spent the party bartending and diligently mixing the drinks. While her classmates complained of the munchies, she would order out for pizza and Chinese food to satisfy the urges. And while her friends complained of headaches and the onset of the inevitable hangover, she laid them down as comfortably as she could.
As she got off the bus to Central Valley High, she ran into her best friend, Evilest Emily. She looked just as sleep deprived, if not more so. Evilest Emily was probably the most generous girl in the entire school. Whenever Evilest Emily’s parents were out of town, she would host massive after-hours parties. So many people would be invited that there would hardly be any standing space. She would always find a way to supply the alcohol no matter what the situation and there was always an endless supply of it. She never asked anyone to bring anything in return. Since her parents were out of town fairly regularly, the parties she throws have gained a reputation for being a large orgy of drunken bacchanalian debauchery. Only Eviler Emily ever helped out because the two girls really enjoyed entertaining their classmates.
They caught up a little at their lockers and walked into their history classroom. Most of their classmates in the rooms were nursing their massive hangovers from the night before and by the looks of it, very few had a chance to study for the exam. The class gave a collective groan as the clock struck 8AM and their teacher, the third and final Emily at their school, stormed in with a fit of rage. Evil Emily, as they called her, was clearly on a rampage with smoke coming out of her ears and fire spewing from her mouth. Her deadly glare would bore into the students as she went to tear into each and every student about their attitudes. When she got to the two Emilys, she stopped her diatribe and a smile broke out over her face. “Class,” she said. “You are lucky that you have two wonderfully evil students in your class to bring down your average. Why can’t you all be more like them?”
You see, Center Valley High was also known as the Devil’s Vocational School and Evil Emily was the Principle. She immediately began to heap praises on Eviler and Evilest Emily as the instigator of the party that would allow the rest of the class to fail the history final. Without them, an inordinate number of students would actually pass. The class gave groans of appreciation and was glad to have such good peers that watched out for their wellbeing. Eviler and Evilest Emily smiled at each other. They loved being the teacher’s pets.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Travel Log April 10, 2008. Maine
Maine is an exciting place. Close your eyes and imagine a land lush with forests on rolling hills with streams that empty into lakes and rivers that flow out to the ocean. Now imagine pristine land perfect for hiking, rafting, climbing, biking, skiing, and mountaineering. Add to that people in plaid shirts with large, bushy beards shopping for hunting rifles and fishing poles. Now imagine the population density spread out so thin that living one hour from town is “close enough” to feel connected to the rest of the world. Imagine stores serving dual purposes, like the Tanning + DVD Salon.
Now imagine what sort of exciting newsflashes can be had in such an environment.
Queen Elizabeth the Second Invades Bar Harbor.
Bar Harbor, ME. On a warm and sunny day, the quaint, New England town of Bar Harbor received a surprise. The 2nd Infantry division on board the QE II landed right off of the Porcupine Islands and launched an amphibious assault. The town, caught unawares, surrendered without firing a single shot from their two ceremonious canons located at the harbor. Thousands of invaders landed in a span of a few hours and mercilessly pillaged the town. The soldiers noisily went into the taverns and public houses to eat and drink their fill. They would stumble out onto the streets and take the best clothes, jewelry and crafts. The local inhabitants were unable to protest the small sheets of paper traded in return. They put on a valiant yet futile effort to keep some semblance of order in their small town but the local police force was vastly outnumbered. Rioting hit the streets at night when there were not enough accommodations. Several taverns were burnt to the ground with the loss of several lives – mostly locals. The eerie orange glow of the fires lasted till late into the night. By the early morning, Bar Harbor was only a shell of what it once was.
Low-bush Blueberry farmers Attacked by Swarm of Ladybugs.
Columbia Falls, ME. The National Guard was deployed to defend Watson’s Blueberry Farm from a swarm of invading Ladybugs. Henry Watson, the owner, said that his farm hands put up a brave fight but were no match for the vicious insects. “Normally they fly through in order to feed on the Aphids but this is almost like a plague. Indeed, the entire field was covered with small crawly red bugs and what used to be the farmhouse is now a lair for the insects.
“This is the worse infestation of ladybugs I’ve ever seen” said Sam Winterpool, Captain of the National Guard. “For now, we are at a stand-off. Our smoke machines are just good enough to keep the insects at bay and prevent them from attacking the town. We have special equipment being flown in from the Capitol that will hopefully repel the invasion for good.”
Mr. Watson was thankful, however, that the National Guard arrived when they did. “My farm hands and I were getting overpowered and if the Guard arrived a few hours later, we would have been a goner. Usually the ladybugs will fly through outside in the fields, but this year they came into the barn – and there are no aphids in there!”
General Announcements
The National Chainsaw Artwork Association will be holding their annual banquet and fundraiser auction Thursday night at the Mexican-Italian Restaurant. All proceeds will benefit the Foundation for Chainsaw Artwork Insurance.
See how exciting Maine can be? For when you live in Maine, your imagination is all you have.
Now imagine what sort of exciting newsflashes can be had in such an environment.
Queen Elizabeth the Second Invades Bar Harbor.
Bar Harbor, ME. On a warm and sunny day, the quaint, New England town of Bar Harbor received a surprise. The 2nd Infantry division on board the QE II landed right off of the Porcupine Islands and launched an amphibious assault. The town, caught unawares, surrendered without firing a single shot from their two ceremonious canons located at the harbor. Thousands of invaders landed in a span of a few hours and mercilessly pillaged the town. The soldiers noisily went into the taverns and public houses to eat and drink their fill. They would stumble out onto the streets and take the best clothes, jewelry and crafts. The local inhabitants were unable to protest the small sheets of paper traded in return. They put on a valiant yet futile effort to keep some semblance of order in their small town but the local police force was vastly outnumbered. Rioting hit the streets at night when there were not enough accommodations. Several taverns were burnt to the ground with the loss of several lives – mostly locals. The eerie orange glow of the fires lasted till late into the night. By the early morning, Bar Harbor was only a shell of what it once was.
Low-bush Blueberry farmers Attacked by Swarm of Ladybugs.
Columbia Falls, ME. The National Guard was deployed to defend Watson’s Blueberry Farm from a swarm of invading Ladybugs. Henry Watson, the owner, said that his farm hands put up a brave fight but were no match for the vicious insects. “Normally they fly through in order to feed on the Aphids but this is almost like a plague. Indeed, the entire field was covered with small crawly red bugs and what used to be the farmhouse is now a lair for the insects.
“This is the worse infestation of ladybugs I’ve ever seen” said Sam Winterpool, Captain of the National Guard. “For now, we are at a stand-off. Our smoke machines are just good enough to keep the insects at bay and prevent them from attacking the town. We have special equipment being flown in from the Capitol that will hopefully repel the invasion for good.”
Mr. Watson was thankful, however, that the National Guard arrived when they did. “My farm hands and I were getting overpowered and if the Guard arrived a few hours later, we would have been a goner. Usually the ladybugs will fly through outside in the fields, but this year they came into the barn – and there are no aphids in there!”
General Announcements
The National Chainsaw Artwork Association will be holding their annual banquet and fundraiser auction Thursday night at the Mexican-Italian Restaurant. All proceeds will benefit the Foundation for Chainsaw Artwork Insurance.
See how exciting Maine can be? For when you live in Maine, your imagination is all you have.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Me Vs. Green
My body is in conflict between the feelings of aching and elation. I have finished my first day of skiing ever and my brain is on the last leg of an adrenaline high while soreness is slowly spreading through my legs. My cheeks feel flushed with heat while my fingers are frigid in comparison. Overall, it was a great day, and here are the numbers. I fell 4 times, went down the bunny slopes 10 times, ate 1 teriyaki chicken sandwich for lunch and 42 french fries. I swore 26 times, tore 1 hole in my hat once, and had 3 shots of Jägermeister. I punched my ski instructor twice, got a bloody nose in return once, broke 3 bones on the half-pipe, had 1 airlift, and a monster medical bill.
Seriously though, I only had 27 french fries.
By far the biggest take-away for the day is green slopes are much more difficult than the bunny slopes. That might sound obvious for veteran skiers, but for me, my rationale of attempting such a feat was “how much harder can it be?”
Let us explain how much harder it can be. At the first ski lesson, the first skill taught is how to stop. This makes sense, because if one ever loses control, one can stop and restart from the beginning. So we spent quite a bit of time learning the wedge technique of starting and stopping and how to turn by bending the opposite knee. After several practice runs, I thought I was ready.
Thus began Mistake #1. What I didn’t know was that on a steeper slope, the wedge on its own is not enough to counteract your downward momentum. After finding out the hard way, I start to frantically turn and found out that I was not turning but merely sliding sideways down the mountain. Eventually, my skis caught the ice and I jetted towards the trees on the side of the trail. Then I learned that self-preservation was the best ski instructor. As I was approaching the trees at full speed, I dug my outside ski into the ice and made the sharpest turn ever and avoided a Wile E. Coyote-style collision. By the time I reached the lodge, I was exhausted and took a much needed break, for both physical and mental reasons.
Returning to the bunny slopes, I ran into a few of my fellow classmates from the lessons in the morning. One of them felt adventurous and debated attempting a green slope. I felt rested and wanted to take a second shot. Thus began Mistake #2. We took a different trail, thinking that it was flatter. It wasn’t. I took the lead and a short time from the lifts, we approached a hill far steeper than on my previous run. Knowing that the wedge method would not work, I stopped in order to see if there was an alternate descent. My friend, however, whizzed right by before I could say anything. I stood and watched in suspense as she accelerated down the slope towards an intersection with another trail. Suddenly, there was a plume of white and when everything settled, one ski was several feet to the left, the other to the right, and she was lying face down in the middle. Calling upon all of my courage, I took my skis off and walked down the slope. Rather, I slipped and fell the entire way and landed awkwardly on my butt. To add insult to injury, when I stood up, there was a 5-year old girl in a light-purple parka gracefully meandering down the hill like it was second-nature.
Thus, the green slopes won twice in one day. After such an experience, there are only three things one can possibly do. The first is to laugh about it for it makes such a good story. The second is to write about it so that you, dear reader, can share in the mirth. And the third is to drink and forget all about it.
Seriously though, I only had 27 french fries.
By far the biggest take-away for the day is green slopes are much more difficult than the bunny slopes. That might sound obvious for veteran skiers, but for me, my rationale of attempting such a feat was “how much harder can it be?”
Let us explain how much harder it can be. At the first ski lesson, the first skill taught is how to stop. This makes sense, because if one ever loses control, one can stop and restart from the beginning. So we spent quite a bit of time learning the wedge technique of starting and stopping and how to turn by bending the opposite knee. After several practice runs, I thought I was ready.
Thus began Mistake #1. What I didn’t know was that on a steeper slope, the wedge on its own is not enough to counteract your downward momentum. After finding out the hard way, I start to frantically turn and found out that I was not turning but merely sliding sideways down the mountain. Eventually, my skis caught the ice and I jetted towards the trees on the side of the trail. Then I learned that self-preservation was the best ski instructor. As I was approaching the trees at full speed, I dug my outside ski into the ice and made the sharpest turn ever and avoided a Wile E. Coyote-style collision. By the time I reached the lodge, I was exhausted and took a much needed break, for both physical and mental reasons.
Returning to the bunny slopes, I ran into a few of my fellow classmates from the lessons in the morning. One of them felt adventurous and debated attempting a green slope. I felt rested and wanted to take a second shot. Thus began Mistake #2. We took a different trail, thinking that it was flatter. It wasn’t. I took the lead and a short time from the lifts, we approached a hill far steeper than on my previous run. Knowing that the wedge method would not work, I stopped in order to see if there was an alternate descent. My friend, however, whizzed right by before I could say anything. I stood and watched in suspense as she accelerated down the slope towards an intersection with another trail. Suddenly, there was a plume of white and when everything settled, one ski was several feet to the left, the other to the right, and she was lying face down in the middle. Calling upon all of my courage, I took my skis off and walked down the slope. Rather, I slipped and fell the entire way and landed awkwardly on my butt. To add insult to injury, when I stood up, there was a 5-year old girl in a light-purple parka gracefully meandering down the hill like it was second-nature.
Thus, the green slopes won twice in one day. After such an experience, there are only three things one can possibly do. The first is to laugh about it for it makes such a good story. The second is to write about it so that you, dear reader, can share in the mirth. And the third is to drink and forget all about it.
Sunday, February 03, 2008
The Emptyness of Defeat
An audible groan fell upon Boston and most of New England tonight. Eli Manning threw the winning touchdown with 35 seconds left to spare for the New York Giants’ win in Super Bowl XLII over the New England Patriots. This was not just any Super Bowl victory. With their win, the Giants stopped a juggernaut in reaching a perfect 19-0 season. They prevented a 4th title in 7 years. They destroyed the dreams of a football dynasty from the dynamic partnership of Coach Bill Belichick and quarterback Tom Brady. Even Vegas betted against them by 12 points. No, this game was a major upset.
I said goodbye to my hosts for the night and headed home. Out on the streets, small groups of people briskly passed each other as they walked home from the football parties, the bars and pubs, and the presumptuous celebrations. Their breaths would condense around their noses and mouths to give a gray aura of dejection. All had stunned looks on their faces as they stared distantly down the streets, and they barely noticed the cars whizzing by not more than two feet away. Indeed, as a driver, it was difficult to concentrate on the road.
Oh Nike, great goddess of victory, why do you taunt us so? Why do you bait our hopes for the history books? You appear to us as an oasis in the desert, as a shiny object in a haystack, as Penelope waiting for Odysseus to return. Yet you are nothing more than a harsh mirage, a rusty nail, or a speck of dust on the horizon. Yes, it is great to cheer for the underdogs, but sometimes, you just want the establishment to win.
Tomorrow is another day. In a week, all that will be talked about is the primary election that will happen on Tuesday. Obama or Clinton? Romney or McCain? Life will be back to normal. There will be other years to live for, other Super Bowls to root for, and many more trophies to vie for. What really matters in the end is that the Red Sox are the defending champions and the Yankees still suck.
I said goodbye to my hosts for the night and headed home. Out on the streets, small groups of people briskly passed each other as they walked home from the football parties, the bars and pubs, and the presumptuous celebrations. Their breaths would condense around their noses and mouths to give a gray aura of dejection. All had stunned looks on their faces as they stared distantly down the streets, and they barely noticed the cars whizzing by not more than two feet away. Indeed, as a driver, it was difficult to concentrate on the road.
Oh Nike, great goddess of victory, why do you taunt us so? Why do you bait our hopes for the history books? You appear to us as an oasis in the desert, as a shiny object in a haystack, as Penelope waiting for Odysseus to return. Yet you are nothing more than a harsh mirage, a rusty nail, or a speck of dust on the horizon. Yes, it is great to cheer for the underdogs, but sometimes, you just want the establishment to win.
Tomorrow is another day. In a week, all that will be talked about is the primary election that will happen on Tuesday. Obama or Clinton? Romney or McCain? Life will be back to normal. There will be other years to live for, other Super Bowls to root for, and many more trophies to vie for. What really matters in the end is that the Red Sox are the defending champions and the Yankees still suck.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Haberdashery
(It has been too long since I’ve last written creatively, so here’s a quickie.)
Two months ago, I was in pain. It wasn’t the acute pains you get when you accidentally stab yourself with a fork while you are cutting a burnt rack-of-lamb in the dark because the electricity just went out. It wasn’t like the dull pain that you feel when you mildly electrocute yourself while you’re trying to replace the blown fuse in the basement. It was more like the chronic pain of a stomachache caused by having too many harmful bacteria in your food that rotted from the lack of refrigeration.
It was for this pain that I got fired. I walk into work one day, with my hands over my stomach and walking slightly keeled forward. My boss is coming down the hallway towards me. She is someone who enjoys confrontation and loves to take out her temper on the poor worker who happens to be within shouting distance. My co-workers and I have worked out a fool-proof system. We devised a system of claps and clicks we do as she walks down the hallway to notify people where she is and where she is going so that people can avoid her. Unfortunately for me, I was so concerned with holding my coffee cup without spilling that I did not notice the frantic clicking until I was staring at the white of my boss’s eyes. Bad.
So here I am, out on the street because I cannot afford a decent apartment. I have been living off of charity by the Homeless Shelter for Middle-Aged Veterans Who Suffer from Dementia. However, since I am neither middle-aged, a veteran, nor do I suffer from dementia, I only get to eat leftover macaroni and cheese. So please, any help would be great. All I want is a shower and a hot meal. Just no lamb chops. I’m allergic to them and I get stomachaches from mint jelly.
Two months ago, I was in pain. It wasn’t the acute pains you get when you accidentally stab yourself with a fork while you are cutting a burnt rack-of-lamb in the dark because the electricity just went out. It wasn’t like the dull pain that you feel when you mildly electrocute yourself while you’re trying to replace the blown fuse in the basement. It was more like the chronic pain of a stomachache caused by having too many harmful bacteria in your food that rotted from the lack of refrigeration.
It was for this pain that I got fired. I walk into work one day, with my hands over my stomach and walking slightly keeled forward. My boss is coming down the hallway towards me. She is someone who enjoys confrontation and loves to take out her temper on the poor worker who happens to be within shouting distance. My co-workers and I have worked out a fool-proof system. We devised a system of claps and clicks we do as she walks down the hallway to notify people where she is and where she is going so that people can avoid her. Unfortunately for me, I was so concerned with holding my coffee cup without spilling that I did not notice the frantic clicking until I was staring at the white of my boss’s eyes. Bad.
So here I am, out on the street because I cannot afford a decent apartment. I have been living off of charity by the Homeless Shelter for Middle-Aged Veterans Who Suffer from Dementia. However, since I am neither middle-aged, a veteran, nor do I suffer from dementia, I only get to eat leftover macaroni and cheese. So please, any help would be great. All I want is a shower and a hot meal. Just no lamb chops. I’m allergic to them and I get stomachaches from mint jelly.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
London Journal
London arouses a sense of passion from person like no other city. Perhaps it is the pulsating rhythm that enraptures every body. Perhaps it is the air of pomp and circumstance that surrounds its daily life. Or perhaps it is the sound of music of a British accent to an America ear that makes it incredibly romantic. Due to my latest experience in England, I tend to favor the latter.
During my latest trip across the pond, I found myself falling victim to that said seductive accent in a most peculiar manner. You see, I was not at a bar ogling over the masses. I was in a checkout line of a supermarket in downtown London when I heard those magical words “Hey mate, can you move over a bit so I can reach the chocolate?” Well, the words were not that magical, but the accent was. I turned around ready to ask the person out right then and there and found myself awkwardly face to face with a wrinkled old pensioner trying to buy some sweets. He stood there and smiled, amused, while I grinned weakly and awkwardly. And the date afterwards was awkward too.
But the Toad-in-the-Hole I had was delicious. One part fat and one part fried, drowned in a thick brown sauce served with sausage and potatoes followed by a traditional apple cobbler and wash it all down with a pint of rich Guinness made for a hearty British meal. You could hear in the background the music for the changing of the guard and people yelling, “Hail Britannica!” with every bite.
Mind you, London also has an array of healthy food options from all round the world, due to its location as a major transportation and trading hub. One can go and find Middle Eastern stuffed aubergine, Spanish grilled berenjena, Italian melanzane alla parmigiana, South African baked brinjal, and Trinidad & Tobago stewed Baigan all within a block of each other. It is amazing that this array of dishes arose from the Sanskrit word vatinganah, which means eggplant.
Then there was the street performer. Never have I ever been chosen to be a “volunteer” for a street performer. I think I was singled out because I was not wildly applauding any of his antics nor laughing at his jokes. My hands were in my pockets firmly gripping my passport and wallet while scanning the crowd for pickpockets. He singled me out as someone who could use a little bit more enthusiasm and had me wrap him up in 20 meters of heavy chains and lock him up with three padlocks. He could have easily escaped within a few seconds, but he dragged his show out for nearly half an hour.
Well, half an hour was nearly enough for me to miss my flight. I ran back to my hotel as soon as the show ended, grabbed my luggage, hopped on the Heathrow Express, and blazed through check-in and security at the airport. As I settled into my luxurious coach-class seat, reminiscing about the journey, I came to the conclusion that London is romantic for many reasons, but one should really try to go on dates with people their own age.
During my latest trip across the pond, I found myself falling victim to that said seductive accent in a most peculiar manner. You see, I was not at a bar ogling over the masses. I was in a checkout line of a supermarket in downtown London when I heard those magical words “Hey mate, can you move over a bit so I can reach the chocolate?” Well, the words were not that magical, but the accent was. I turned around ready to ask the person out right then and there and found myself awkwardly face to face with a wrinkled old pensioner trying to buy some sweets. He stood there and smiled, amused, while I grinned weakly and awkwardly. And the date afterwards was awkward too.
But the Toad-in-the-Hole I had was delicious. One part fat and one part fried, drowned in a thick brown sauce served with sausage and potatoes followed by a traditional apple cobbler and wash it all down with a pint of rich Guinness made for a hearty British meal. You could hear in the background the music for the changing of the guard and people yelling, “Hail Britannica!” with every bite.
Mind you, London also has an array of healthy food options from all round the world, due to its location as a major transportation and trading hub. One can go and find Middle Eastern stuffed aubergine, Spanish grilled berenjena, Italian melanzane alla parmigiana, South African baked brinjal, and Trinidad & Tobago stewed Baigan all within a block of each other. It is amazing that this array of dishes arose from the Sanskrit word vatinganah, which means eggplant.
Then there was the street performer. Never have I ever been chosen to be a “volunteer” for a street performer. I think I was singled out because I was not wildly applauding any of his antics nor laughing at his jokes. My hands were in my pockets firmly gripping my passport and wallet while scanning the crowd for pickpockets. He singled me out as someone who could use a little bit more enthusiasm and had me wrap him up in 20 meters of heavy chains and lock him up with three padlocks. He could have easily escaped within a few seconds, but he dragged his show out for nearly half an hour.
Well, half an hour was nearly enough for me to miss my flight. I ran back to my hotel as soon as the show ended, grabbed my luggage, hopped on the Heathrow Express, and blazed through check-in and security at the airport. As I settled into my luxurious coach-class seat, reminiscing about the journey, I came to the conclusion that London is romantic for many reasons, but one should really try to go on dates with people their own age.
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