Last spring, I needed to kill some time between two cocktail events, so I had walked down to the South Street Seaport. When I turned a corner, I overheard a commotion of Texas accents. I asked about the gathering. “A Texas Chili Cook-off in Manhattan,” one of the red-faced festival-goers said, strangely pronouncing the city’s name as if it were a man named Hattan. (Perfection would have been one good Yee-Haw, but it didn’t happen.) Read more
Who is This Guy?
They call me Noah. I travel.
I write. Occasionally, I have misadventures so you won’t. Learn more here.Free Newsletter
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