Just got back to LA from my long weekend in Atlanta. Man o man, is that city cool. I ate like a king there, thanks to my very knowledgeable Atlantan (Atlantean?) friends. Stay tuned for some glorious pictures of food. Even after five hours of flying, I’m still in a food coma, so they’re not getting posted tonight.
Walking down Embassy Row in Washington, D.C.–that aptly named area where most of the the foreign embassies are located in America’s capital–I couldn’t get past the fact these vastly different countries were next door neighbors. Some of the embassies seriously only had a few feet separating them. Diplomats are supposed to be, well, diplomatic, so I’m sure the close proximity to one another hasn’t caused international crises. Diplomats are good at smoothing things over, so if Poland is blaring techno music after 10pm and annoying Chile, who’s got an early morning the next day taking the kids to soccer practice, Chile and Poland would talk it out instead of bringing the cops into it. Although, now that I think about it, Poland has diplomatic immunity, so Poland could rock out all night if she wanted. But Poland’s not like that. She would turn down the music and send over a muffin basket to Chile the next day, ’cause that’s the kind of neighbor Poland is.
Some common neighbor problems are easily avoided, since each embassy undoubtedly has their own crew of groundskeepers, which helps avoid the uncomfortable scenario of Sweden yelling at Indonesia for not mowing her lawn. But even being able to dodge landscaping arguments, it does make one ponder: if countries can live next to each other without conflict, why can’t actual next door neighbors?
I like myself some spice. When I eat the Vietnamese noodle soup, Pho, I could just enjoy the subtle flavors of the chicken broth. But I don’t. I load on the Sriracha, that magical and very spicy red condiment that comes in a squeeze bottle. If it’s Taco Time* in my apartment, I get out the Cholula hot sauce, ’cause that chicken needs some kick.
Food critics like to be challenged by the food they eat. Fusions between vastly different cuisines, exotic ingredients, unique preparations. I also like to be challenged by food, but on my budget, I’ve settled on the challenge of eating a tablespoon of wasabi. Or a chili pepper. Eating to the point of pain, basically. That’s how I walk on the wild side. Well, it’s more like a walk through a partially gentrified neighborhood bordering The Wild Side, but it’s something.
New Orleans is known for its food, and it’s also known for its spice. And that’s one of the many reasons I like the place. Watery eyes, running nose–these are usually symptoms of a cold, but if they happen while you’re eating jambalaya, that’s a good thing. Your body is telling you to stop, that you’re hurting yourself and you should just eat a slice of toast, and yet you continue, chowing down on that sweat-inducing stuff. This is when boys become men.
Some say people hallucinate when they eat incredibly spicy foods. That hasn’t happened to me yet. Then again, Thomas Jefferson did suggest I order more naan for my curry…
*Taco Time is a very special time of the day when I make myself tacos.
What better way to see New Orleans’ French Quarter than than on a horse drawn carriage ride? It harkens back to a simpler time in history, a time when Henry Ford hadn’t yet thought of that newfangled horseless buggy. The only thing is, if you take a ride, you’ll have to deal with all the modern technology N’awlins has now. Like, horseless buggies. I wonder if one of the steeds is named “Anachronism.”
I didn’t take a carriage ride when I was in New Orleans. I have taken one before, though, in New York City. My family and I, after eating at Tavern on the Green, chose to digest with a clip-clopping ride through Central Park. This was the mid-90s, right after Home Alone 2: Lost in New York came out. Well, it just so happened that our carriage driver was in the lesser-quality-but-still-highly-enjoyable sequel to Home Alone. There’s one scene–more like a five second shot–where Kevin hides in a basket on a carriage. Our driver was the guy that drove Kevin away! To a young kid (which I was, at the time), this was big time stuff. For a few glorious minutes, I was one degree away from Kevin McCallister, the kid that had a Talkboy tape recorder and ordered room service ice cream sundaes.
Perhaps deep down, I’ve never entered another carriage because I knew I would never top that New York ride. I flew too close to the sun.
I like children. If raised correctly, they can be downright adorable. But man, you get a hundred of them together on an out-of-state field trip, one involving a hotel with a pool and phones that can call other rooms for free, and I don’t care how well behaved those kids usually are, they are gonna flip. I know they will, because I flipped when I was a kid. For a child of 7-14, going on an extended field trip that crosses state lines is just about as good as it can get. It’s like the most awesome sleepaway camp ever, which is the only experience that could even come close to a multi-day field trip’s level of awesomeness. Both symbolize freedom, something kids rarely get to have. You’re away from your parents, away from your hometown, and adults are actually treating you like an adult. But a trip is even better than camp, because instead of having to make new friends with people you’ll never see after that summer, you get to hang out with your best friends from school. And you’re in a really cool city with tons of fun stuff to do. Oh, and did I mention you’re staying in a hotel with a pool?
So when I was in Washington D.C, I understood why the kids in matching baseball hats were excited. But that didn’t change the fact I was annoyed to see them. Let me tell you something, reading the Declaration of Independence at the National Archives loses some of its majesty when teenage girls are loudly whispering behind you about how cute Brett is. The somberness of looking at the Vietnam Wall vanishes when a middle schooler impresses his friends by sliding down the walkway ramp post-rain storm. And in D.C., these roaming gangs of children are everywhere. The National Mall is full of them, invading every Smithsonian museum possible, even the lame ones you visit in hopes of escaping the crowds.
I’ve wrangled some kids in my day. It’s not fun. I worked as a camp counselor and was assigned a group of ten kindergarteners to supervise on our camp’s field trip to Navy Pier in Chicago. My legs were twice as long as theirs, and yet they still managed to escape me constantly. By the end of the day, I had seen all of Navy Pier, but mostly as a blur while I ran to grab kids before they fell in Lake Michigan.
Funny enough, my Fifth Grade Trip was to Navy Pier, where my twelve-year-old self kept telling our group leader to stop so I could take pictures with my first ever girlfriend. I guess karma takes a while to catch up with you.
