I’m always shocked by the irony of an airplane toilet. It’s one of those places where you can tell that those responsible for posting the signage had no faith in man’s intelligence. Yet at the same time the signs really set the occupant up for failure or criminality.
“Please enjoy a duty-free flight,” announced the flight attendant. My eyes shut and I smiled at what I hoped would be a true and magical statement. While I love not paying duties, I wasn’t thinking greenbacks. I was praying against brown splats. The plane would only suspend itself in the air for a whole fifty minutes. Sixty-three, the attendant had noted from gate to gate.
It had been a terrible week of eating in Quebec. While things started off well in Quebec City, where steak frite at L’Entrecote Saint Jean was as wonderful as the succulent ribs that fell onto the bacon-topped side Caesar salad at Cochon Dingue, there was a foreboding in the air. The twenty-below temperatures that dipped at night were part of the problem. And venturing out into such frigid conditions with our teething daughter, who had already guaranteed us that she would not sit through a meal, helped us to fail gastronomically. Finally, staying at ski resorts, where good food is as commonplace as Abominable Snowman sightings, made our ingestive experiences as flavorful as a trip to a Soviet-era spice market.
I recently moved into a new neighborhood and found the most phenomenal Indian restaurant. (Actually Marissa found it, though seeing as her Indian food consumption consists of one dish and naan, I’m the one dubbing it phenomenal.) For some reason, however, the restaurant is trying to repel me. Read more
While I was in Dominica’s largest city Roseau, which is more like a quaint little capital that feels like New Orleans without the Jazz or the party or the food, I was looking to leave Roseau. Read more