Wednesday, September 26, 2007
New York Moments
From where, I beg someone to tell me, did the laudable custom of through shoes on street cables germinate? My mother informed me that her Queens childhood was filled with unburdened cables, but also realized that mine was not. That narrows the scope to about twenty years. The impetus for asking this, is of course, a shoe cable incident. As I was ambled over to the neighborhood drugstore I was almost impaled and knocked over by a clunky object, that soon revealed itself to be a pair of heavy black shoes fell out of the sky. While I regained my footing, the proud tosser of the shoes expressed his disappointment in missing his target to his cohort. They tried- and missed again. This time I knew to stay clear. I went inside the drug store, purchased by breath right strips, which my doctor assured me would cure any sleeping ailments I might have, and prayed that the shoe tossers would be gone when I left the store. No such luck. Now, of course, a small, male only crowd had gather to discuss the best shoe tossing techniques. One man left the movie trailer he was working from that was shooting on the street to come over and suggest using the tape from a cassette- he testified that it always worked for him. Oh, the tosser said, and tried (and failed) again. This time though, the failure to attach was surely due to the lack of cassette tape. As an unwitting passerby, I wondered how many times in life one sees a crowd gathered to singly focus on throwing shoes on a cable on a street closed to traffic due to a movie being shot? Not often, and only in New York.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Back in NYC
Waking up in Brooklyn, I realized that I had so much to do! I had to get my stuff in Manhattan (I seem to be always getting, moving, or shleeping stuff), go home, eat and get to synagogue before sundown. Ugh.
After circling 75th street for 1.2 hour, I realized why I hate the UWS so much. It is an absolute war. The pedestrians move whenever they want, a benefit I certainly reserve for myself and take with me to other states, cars can only turn when the pedestrians have the right of way, and there are more beat up white vans double parked then citizens of South Dakota. Thankfully, I was only honked at once, and was able to park at the hydrant. Later, the owner of a legally beat up white van graciously offered me his spot, further ameliorating my situation. Did I mention that I love New York?
I drove home, showered ate and made it to the elderly reconstructionist synagogue in time. What is with me and the old people lately? Hm....
After circling 75th street for 1.2 hour, I realized why I hate the UWS so much. It is an absolute war. The pedestrians move whenever they want, a benefit I certainly reserve for myself and take with me to other states, cars can only turn when the pedestrians have the right of way, and there are more beat up white vans double parked then citizens of South Dakota. Thankfully, I was only honked at once, and was able to park at the hydrant. Later, the owner of a legally beat up white van graciously offered me his spot, further ameliorating my situation. Did I mention that I love New York?
I drove home, showered ate and made it to the elderly reconstructionist synagogue in time. What is with me and the old people lately? Hm....
Homeward Bound
Waking up in Le Porte, Indiana, I realized, much to my delight that I still had the world's best cheese sandwich with me. I opted to eat it for breakfast, realizing that eating out in Indiana would certainly cause a blunt end to my streak of wonderful and interesting breakfast experiences. It was good- actually, very good, but not amazing. The cheese sandwich that is. This, of course, could partially be because it was 12 hours old and had been sitting in a car. After the cheese sandwich the day proved to be relatively boring. Let me modify that, if the cheese sandwich was the highlight of the day, the rest was incredibly boring. I drove almost straight through to Brooklyn with a few rest stops, and a brief stop at the scrap book store where I found my sister a Middlebury sticker. Fortunately, I found a spot in Brooklyn at 2am and went to sleep in my bed for the first time in three months.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Cheese Head
Waking up in Austin Minnesota, I realized that I should explore the local offerings. I mean, when, am I ever going to be there again? A brief search on the internet revealed that Austin is really Spamtown, USA (who knew?) and is very proud of its history as such.
During breakfast the waitress, elderly couple in the adjoining booth and I watched O.J. newest trial on CNN. A fascinating experience because I was informed by my female booth neighbor that the elderly woman that the only reason O.J. was acquitted the first time was because “they [who is they? I’d love to know] were afraid the black people would riot” huh? “You know, like they did with that beating business". Oh, racism, how utterly undisguised in the Midwest.
Based on this, is it not surprising that the sole cultural heritage of this town surrounds Spam?
I went to the Spam Museum the first museum because it was the first museum I encountered and to fill the void of knowledge about the processed meat industry that I maintain. This venerable institution taught me that spam is cooked in the little metal bins (for two and half hours), that Hormel used to have an all women's band (all of whom had to have been in the army) and that in 2003 men and women both worked full time jobs. Good stuff. I left Minnesota quickly and headed out to that fabulous state where bright orange cheese is the norm and the state school uses a badger its mascot.
I was so excited to eat cheese Wisconsin that I could hardly maintain composure. I called everyone I knew “I’m eating cheese in Wisconsin!” I enthusiastically yelled into machines. It was like chocolate cake only better. At four o’clock I arrived at the cheese outlet where I sampled many cheeses, settling on the most obnoxiously orange and smelly ones. What a far and pleasant cry from the odorless processed pig shoulders cooked in metal tins.
As I was driving, I got a call from my mother, who had heard, along with the rest of the Western world that I was eating cheese in Wisconsin. Try the ice cream she urged me, its just as good. Obviously! How could I overlook this? If the cheese was stupendous, the ice cream must be orgasmic. Good thing the blue spoon, a little bakery on the side of the highway happened to be in my path with homemade Gelato. How serendipitous is that?
My Gelato had to be followed with, of course, cheese. So, I headed south to Monroe Wisconsin which proudly boasts of it German heritage and blares lovely elevator music from the town hall, into the town square all night. My search for the cheese shop was fruitless but yielded an ice cream store that sold the good stuff by the weight (how great is that) in containers labeled "do not think of asking about the nutritious value of this product. It is made with cream and is delicious. If you want nutrients eat carrots." Fair enough. The ice cream really is stupendous.
The girl at the ice cream store steered me to the cheese shop which doubled as a German beer garden and restaurant. (you see why I missed it the first time?) Here, I got more orange stuff and a sandwich for 2.75 which was advertised on every possible surface to be the best cheese sandwich in the world. My cheese binge starting wearing on my waistline, breath and everything else so I decided to bid Wisconsin goodbye and head down to Illinois.
In Illinois I had the task of finding my relatives which was relatively easy as the highway is clearly marked with signs for “the northwest suburbs”. This signage was immensely amusing me, a New Yorker as we don’t label things and would never dare to undertake such a move as to categorize, group or brand our suburbs. I mean really, how pedestrian is that?
My family and I had a great, but short visit, after which I headed out to Indiana, home of, well, nothing really. I should note here my immense disappointment in Gary, Indiana which I had idealized and looked forward to visiting since I first heard it sung about in The Music Man in 1985. It is not anyone’s home sweet home. It is, rather, the big and ugly Newark of the Midwest. Unfortunate for everyone, particularly me, who was planning to sleep there, but refused to after seeing the unending smoke stacks and hearing about the murder rate. I slept instead in Le Porte Indiana a truly unremarkable town, where my shower lacked drainage and the internet is accessed through dial-up.
During breakfast the waitress, elderly couple in the adjoining booth and I watched O.J. newest trial on CNN. A fascinating experience because I was informed by my female booth neighbor that the elderly woman that the only reason O.J. was acquitted the first time was because “they [who is they? I’d love to know] were afraid the black people would riot” huh? “You know, like they did with that beating business". Oh, racism, how utterly undisguised in the Midwest.
Based on this, is it not surprising that the sole cultural heritage of this town surrounds Spam?
I went to the Spam Museum the first museum because it was the first museum I encountered and to fill the void of knowledge about the processed meat industry that I maintain. This venerable institution taught me that spam is cooked in the little metal bins (for two and half hours), that Hormel used to have an all women's band (all of whom had to have been in the army) and that in 2003 men and women both worked full time jobs. Good stuff. I left Minnesota quickly and headed out to that fabulous state where bright orange cheese is the norm and the state school uses a badger its mascot.
I was so excited to eat cheese Wisconsin that I could hardly maintain composure. I called everyone I knew “I’m eating cheese in Wisconsin!” I enthusiastically yelled into machines. It was like chocolate cake only better. At four o’clock I arrived at the cheese outlet where I sampled many cheeses, settling on the most obnoxiously orange and smelly ones. What a far and pleasant cry from the odorless processed pig shoulders cooked in metal tins.
As I was driving, I got a call from my mother, who had heard, along with the rest of the Western world that I was eating cheese in Wisconsin. Try the ice cream she urged me, its just as good. Obviously! How could I overlook this? If the cheese was stupendous, the ice cream must be orgasmic. Good thing the blue spoon, a little bakery on the side of the highway happened to be in my path with homemade Gelato. How serendipitous is that?
My Gelato had to be followed with, of course, cheese. So, I headed south to Monroe Wisconsin which proudly boasts of it German heritage and blares lovely elevator music from the town hall, into the town square all night. My search for the cheese shop was fruitless but yielded an ice cream store that sold the good stuff by the weight (how great is that) in containers labeled "do not think of asking about the nutritious value of this product. It is made with cream and is delicious. If you want nutrients eat carrots." Fair enough. The ice cream really is stupendous.
The girl at the ice cream store steered me to the cheese shop which doubled as a German beer garden and restaurant. (you see why I missed it the first time?) Here, I got more orange stuff and a sandwich for 2.75 which was advertised on every possible surface to be the best cheese sandwich in the world. My cheese binge starting wearing on my waistline, breath and everything else so I decided to bid Wisconsin goodbye and head down to Illinois.
In Illinois I had the task of finding my relatives which was relatively easy as the highway is clearly marked with signs for “the northwest suburbs”. This signage was immensely amusing me, a New Yorker as we don’t label things and would never dare to undertake such a move as to categorize, group or brand our suburbs. I mean really, how pedestrian is that?
My family and I had a great, but short visit, after which I headed out to Indiana, home of, well, nothing really. I should note here my immense disappointment in Gary, Indiana which I had idealized and looked forward to visiting since I first heard it sung about in The Music Man in 1985. It is not anyone’s home sweet home. It is, rather, the big and ugly Newark of the Midwest. Unfortunate for everyone, particularly me, who was planning to sleep there, but refused to after seeing the unending smoke stacks and hearing about the murder rate. I slept instead in Le Porte Indiana a truly unremarkable town, where my shower lacked drainage and the internet is accessed through dial-up.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Spamtown USA!
Yes- you read the title right I am in Austin, Minnesota the official Home of Spam and the spam museum.
I finally busted ass and drove eight hours solely because I was tired of everyone asking "You're still in South Dakota?" Its a big state people! Look at a map- what are you all Ms. South Carolina?
Anyway- before I took off, I thoroughly enjoyed Hot Springs South Dakota all morning. I went to the post office where lost mail was retrieved by the postal clerk and then refused by the main who asked her to find it, ate a delicious veggie omelet, browsed at the organic store, and enjoyed the hot spring (which is not so hot, more than a bit run down and populated by four retirees and me). The hot spring, I should mention is indoors, costs ten dollars (which for South Dakota is a small house) and has slides which require mats for no obvious reason. One might assume they are needed for hygienic purposes, however, this reason is negated by the sheer fact that when paying for my entrance fee I was given the option to rent either a towel, bathing suit or both. Gross.
Hot Springs the town is neither gross nor run down. It has been around for over 100 years and boasts the beautiful red sandstone buildings including a large, well kept quite V.A. facility. Let me tell you, when I come back as a vet I am hopping on the first plane to Hot Springs and receiving all my services there. I aint never going to that shaaady facility on east 23rd street with leaks and sirens everywhere.
Before wrapping up my trip in hot springs I should mention that I passed the county jail on my walk back from the hot spring. Outside the jail, along Main Street, is an enclosed basketball court not notable itself except for the bizarre spectacle it creates for the occasional pedestrian. What is notable is that as I walked by court/jail and snapped shots of the historic sand stone building behind it, I was shouted at by the four men playing ball and got mooned. Yes- you read right I got mooned. Jason an inmate at the Fall River County Jail., who was playing ball with four others, cavorted with the others to make up a name and get my attention. He then turned around and... One should note that according to city-data.com there are only 18 people in the Fall River County Jail. Therefore, counting the two women I saw playing ball earlier while I was on my way to the springs I saw a full 1/3 of the counties' inmates and a full 1/18 of all the inmates asses.
After thoroughly enjoying the mooning, sand stone buildings and omelet of Hot Springs, I realized by the repetitive cry of "You're still in South Dakota??" that it was time to leave. (Have I mentioned by hatred for cell phones?) On my way out I managed to stop and grab a few rock shots at the mammoth site for my new brother in law as the sign unambiguously stated that the site is a "geologists dream."
On the road I had my longest and most productive drive yet stopping only to get gas, eat TCBY at Burger King and eat a salad at subway - which, btw has pizza, who knew?
Now, I will go to sleep with fond thoughts of Wisconson cheese filling my mind.
I finally busted ass and drove eight hours solely because I was tired of everyone asking "You're still in South Dakota?" Its a big state people! Look at a map- what are you all Ms. South Carolina?
Anyway- before I took off, I thoroughly enjoyed Hot Springs South Dakota all morning. I went to the post office where lost mail was retrieved by the postal clerk and then refused by the main who asked her to find it, ate a delicious veggie omelet, browsed at the organic store, and enjoyed the hot spring (which is not so hot, more than a bit run down and populated by four retirees and me). The hot spring, I should mention is indoors, costs ten dollars (which for South Dakota is a small house) and has slides which require mats for no obvious reason. One might assume they are needed for hygienic purposes, however, this reason is negated by the sheer fact that when paying for my entrance fee I was given the option to rent either a towel, bathing suit or both. Gross.
Hot Springs the town is neither gross nor run down. It has been around for over 100 years and boasts the beautiful red sandstone buildings including a large, well kept quite V.A. facility. Let me tell you, when I come back as a vet I am hopping on the first plane to Hot Springs and receiving all my services there. I aint never going to that shaaady facility on east 23rd street with leaks and sirens everywhere.
Before wrapping up my trip in hot springs I should mention that I passed the county jail on my walk back from the hot spring. Outside the jail, along Main Street, is an enclosed basketball court not notable itself except for the bizarre spectacle it creates for the occasional pedestrian. What is notable is that as I walked by court/jail and snapped shots of the historic sand stone building behind it, I was shouted at by the four men playing ball and got mooned. Yes- you read right I got mooned. Jason an inmate at the Fall River County Jail., who was playing ball with four others, cavorted with the others to make up a name and get my attention. He then turned around and... One should note that according to city-data.com there are only 18 people in the Fall River County Jail. Therefore, counting the two women I saw playing ball earlier while I was on my way to the springs I saw a full 1/3 of the counties' inmates and a full 1/18 of all the inmates asses.
After thoroughly enjoying the mooning, sand stone buildings and omelet of Hot Springs, I realized by the repetitive cry of "You're still in South Dakota??" that it was time to leave. (Have I mentioned by hatred for cell phones?) On my way out I managed to stop and grab a few rock shots at the mammoth site for my new brother in law as the sign unambiguously stated that the site is a "geologists dream."
On the road I had my longest and most productive drive yet stopping only to get gas, eat TCBY at Burger King and eat a salad at subway - which, btw has pizza, who knew?
Now, I will go to sleep with fond thoughts of Wisconson cheese filling my mind.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
South Dakota
South Dakota is amazing. Rewind. How did I end up in South Dakota? Well... after three hours of extraordinarily frustrating conversations with the airline, during which time everything from my flight departure time to my airplane model and carrier was recounted countless each time the return flight was changed, only to be asked after submitting my money would I like a window or isle seat, to which I answered "window seat" and was informed, in a very pleasant Indian voice "I am sorry, there are no window seats available." So faced with taking a red eye to from Seattle to White Plains with a stop in Atlanta, I decided my driving was the best way to NYC.
Subconsciously, of course, I am delaying my arrival into the very harsh and broke reality that awaits me in New York as long as possible.
So, South Dakota. I arrived here after starting my day in Billings Montana, where, upon inquiring about the rigidity of id laws at check in I was informed that a girl had been brutally raped and murdered in the hotel next door next door. Well, after informing the girls at the desk that that information did not increase my sense of security, I was told that I was staying in the part of the hotel where the "extenders stay". This, apparently, is Montana lingo for burly men who live in two star hotels. So as I ask one girl about the murder, I hear the other call Earl, my next door neighbor, and tell him, rather loudly to "watch out for the single girl who is traveling to New York". Great. Now not only am I alone, but the entire hotel knows it.So after my fantastic and horror free night thank to Earl's psychic protection, I headed out to Wyoming.
Let me tell you, they really like that Rodeo logo. I mean really. So I got off at the "historic town" of Sheridan and had lunch. I mean really, what in Wyoming isn't historic? How many people have really moved there since the gold rush? Four. I can say this with veracity because I met them all. Today. I was also blessed by falling into several tourist traps, two healthy eating establishments and a wonderful cowboy boot store (highly recommend Brian's next time your in Sheridan Wyoming). Fearing I wouldn't make it to my dead presidents in time, I fled Wyoming and heading east to South Dakota.
As I entered South Dakota, I could hardly contain myself. Mount Rushmore was almost tangible. I had seen pictures but knew it was going to be so much better. My heart was rushing as I saw the 127 mileage sign at 4pm, fearing that I had spent way to much time schmoozing and eating in Wyoming and would get to Mt. Fantastic at six just as it was closing. Luckily it didn't close and certainly didn't disappoint.
Fortuitously I am no longer a teacher, or employed for that matter, and was able to go when there were no crowds, no kids and noise. It was just me, some randoms and two bus loads of ol' folks. I easily parked and sauntered through the hall of flags to the porch joyously taking minimally obstructed pictures. There they were- the four presidents. It was simply amazing. I know you have seen the pictures, but it is nothing like the real thing. Mount Rushmore is just absolutely breathtaking. The size and height of the mountain makes you realize the sacrifices people used to make just to create art for this country- let alone protect it. I just couldn't get enough - I wanted to snap every angle, and luckily I could. I leisurely walked along the path examining the fine stature from every angle,
taking in inappropriate amount of pictures. A peril of digital snapping that I have decided to accept.
Finally I got to back to the amphitheater and waited for the show. To warm up, the park ranger asked a bunch of completely random questions, such as "which president was arrested and had his horse and buggy impounded by the police for speeding in D.C.?" to which my companions, all being a good forty years older then me, answered easily. Another ranger came out to officially initiate the ceremonious lighting. He did so by explaining how the ghost dance religion contributed to both the end the Indian wars and unnecessary massacre of Lakota men, women and children at Wounded Knee Creek on December 29 1890. This powerful speech was followed by a cheesy propagandaesque movie which discussed the achievements of the four presidents that made them worthy of their place on Mt. Rushmore. It also spoke, albeit minimally, to the suffering and loss the American expansion caused the Native Americans. Lastly, as the statue was lit, veterans and all persons who had served in the military were asked to get on the stage. After the flag was folded and the anthem sung, they introduced themselves and revealed their unit and sometimes their war as well. Whew. How emotionally. So, three hours after enthusiastically entering Mt. Rushmore, hoping to see some very big dead presidential heads, I left feeling invigorated, moved and hopeful that we can overcome the horrors of the war we are fighting abroad and maybe even help out the people living in poverty here.
Subconsciously, of course, I am delaying my arrival into the very harsh and broke reality that awaits me in New York as long as possible.
So, South Dakota. I arrived here after starting my day in Billings Montana, where, upon inquiring about the rigidity of id laws at check in I was informed that a girl had been brutally raped and murdered in the hotel next door next door. Well, after informing the girls at the desk that that information did not increase my sense of security, I was told that I was staying in the part of the hotel where the "extenders stay". This, apparently, is Montana lingo for burly men who live in two star hotels. So as I ask one girl about the murder, I hear the other call Earl, my next door neighbor, and tell him, rather loudly to "watch out for the single girl who is traveling to New York". Great. Now not only am I alone, but the entire hotel knows it.So after my fantastic and horror free night thank to Earl's psychic protection, I headed out to Wyoming.
Let me tell you, they really like that Rodeo logo. I mean really. So I got off at the "historic town" of Sheridan and had lunch. I mean really, what in Wyoming isn't historic? How many people have really moved there since the gold rush? Four. I can say this with veracity because I met them all. Today. I was also blessed by falling into several tourist traps, two healthy eating establishments and a wonderful cowboy boot store (highly recommend Brian's next time your in Sheridan Wyoming). Fearing I wouldn't make it to my dead presidents in time, I fled Wyoming and heading east to South Dakota.
As I entered South Dakota, I could hardly contain myself. Mount Rushmore was almost tangible. I had seen pictures but knew it was going to be so much better. My heart was rushing as I saw the 127 mileage sign at 4pm, fearing that I had spent way to much time schmoozing and eating in Wyoming and would get to Mt. Fantastic at six just as it was closing. Luckily it didn't close and certainly didn't disappoint.
Fortuitously I am no longer a teacher, or employed for that matter, and was able to go when there were no crowds, no kids and noise. It was just me, some randoms and two bus loads of ol' folks. I easily parked and sauntered through the hall of flags to the porch joyously taking minimally obstructed pictures. There they were- the four presidents. It was simply amazing. I know you have seen the pictures, but it is nothing like the real thing. Mount Rushmore is just absolutely breathtaking. The size and height of the mountain makes you realize the sacrifices people used to make just to create art for this country- let alone protect it. I just couldn't get enough - I wanted to snap every angle, and luckily I could. I leisurely walked along the path examining the fine stature from every angle,
taking in inappropriate amount of pictures. A peril of digital snapping that I have decided to accept.
Finally I got to back to the amphitheater and waited for the show. To warm up, the park ranger asked a bunch of completely random questions, such as "which president was arrested and had his horse and buggy impounded by the police for speeding in D.C.?" to which my companions, all being a good forty years older then me, answered easily. Another ranger came out to officially initiate the ceremonious lighting. He did so by explaining how the ghost dance religion contributed to both the end the Indian wars and unnecessary massacre of Lakota men, women and children at Wounded Knee Creek on December 29 1890. This powerful speech was followed by a cheesy propagandaesque movie which discussed the achievements of the four presidents that made them worthy of their place on Mt. Rushmore. It also spoke, albeit minimally, to the suffering and loss the American expansion caused the Native Americans. Lastly, as the statue was lit, veterans and all persons who had served in the military were asked to get on the stage. After the flag was folded and the anthem sung, they introduced themselves and revealed their unit and sometimes their war as well. Whew. How emotionally. So, three hours after enthusiastically entering Mt. Rushmore, hoping to see some very big dead presidential heads, I left feeling invigorated, moved and hopeful that we can overcome the horrors of the war we are fighting abroad and maybe even help out the people living in poverty here.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Benji's Arrival
Ben arrived today. Unfortunately I had to get my hair done at the same time. Your probably saying or at least thinking I didn't "have" to get my hair done at the same time, but really I did. I waited three weeks for this women and this was the only slot she had- any women would empathize. I should also point out that this trip was planned before the flight was booked.
So he arrived, found my at the underground hair salon and we went home to pack up. A very unfortunate duty to have to undertake considering it was costing me a valuable good hair day. Thankfully, I packed up the remainders of my apartment in time for us to thoroughly enjoy happy hour. For those unlucky few who have yet to experience happy hour in Portland- let me say four o'clock, $3 drinks and cheap food.
We started off at a bar which made its own tonic and sake sangeria- how yummy. Unfortunately, they had no food or beer on tap, the later being insulting in the microbrew capital of the country. Our search for beer landed us at a bar near 14th street where we grabbed a few bitter micro-brews and drunkenly debated the appropriate percentage of hops with our neighbors. Having temporarily satiated our need for microbrew and faced with rumbling stomachs and the end of happy hour, we went to the odd Bento place that shuts too early and looks like a gas station. There my brother was given free bento food (don't ask any questions- that's my official vegetarian summation) solving two problems in one- hunger and cost. We then found ourselves in the Northwest area, where I dared my brother to ring the doorbell of an acquaintance. Well, of course he did it- throughly amusing me. Her, not so much. So then we had to proceed. Food being my object thought ninety percent of the time, I steered us to the gelatto place, where we indulged in Portland's best. Next, of course, was more beer. This was my brother's first night here. We stopped at the ubiquitous and quintessential Portland favorite- McMenamins. Friends met us there, and we had a great time enjoy the offerings of 23rd Avenue. With the urging of the tired waitress we then headed to the hotel we were entertained and had an otherwise boring descention into sleep.
So he arrived, found my at the underground hair salon and we went home to pack up. A very unfortunate duty to have to undertake considering it was costing me a valuable good hair day. Thankfully, I packed up the remainders of my apartment in time for us to thoroughly enjoy happy hour. For those unlucky few who have yet to experience happy hour in Portland- let me say four o'clock, $3 drinks and cheap food.
We started off at a bar which made its own tonic and sake sangeria- how yummy. Unfortunately, they had no food or beer on tap, the later being insulting in the microbrew capital of the country. Our search for beer landed us at a bar near 14th street where we grabbed a few bitter micro-brews and drunkenly debated the appropriate percentage of hops with our neighbors. Having temporarily satiated our need for microbrew and faced with rumbling stomachs and the end of happy hour, we went to the odd Bento place that shuts too early and looks like a gas station. There my brother was given free bento food (don't ask any questions- that's my official vegetarian summation) solving two problems in one- hunger and cost. We then found ourselves in the Northwest area, where I dared my brother to ring the doorbell of an acquaintance. Well, of course he did it- throughly amusing me. Her, not so much. So then we had to proceed. Food being my object thought ninety percent of the time, I steered us to the gelatto place, where we indulged in Portland's best. Next, of course, was more beer. This was my brother's first night here. We stopped at the ubiquitous and quintessential Portland favorite- McMenamins. Friends met us there, and we had a great time enjoy the offerings of 23rd Avenue. With the urging of the tired waitress we then headed to the hotel we were entertained and had an otherwise boring descention into sleep.
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