The Slope

I will be the first to admit I know at best very little about Brooklyn. I know many people who live there and love it for its affordability in comparison to Manhattan. In my mind, there is absolutely nothing wrong with living in Brooklyn—in fact, I sometimes wish I had the opportunity to go there more often because I’m sure there’s lots of great places I’ve yet to explore.

So when I was brought to Brooklyn’s Park Slope neighborhood while working on an article for a magazine, I was pleased to have the opportunity to see someplace new. Walking out of the subway onto Flatbush Avenue and then Eighth Avenue toward my destination, I did not expect to be aflutter with marvelous visual overload. I am a big fan of beautiful architecture, and my walk was a drop-jawed, wide-eyed kid-inheriting-a-candy-store feast of 19th century architecture. Curved windows stacked floor by floor in rusty-red brownstones, home after home nestled by a charming collection of stairs, gorgeously detailed mouldings and windowpanes. I was in the Park Slope Historic District, and I wanted to walk up and down the streets in that area forever.

While forever wasn’t possible that day, I did decide to return later. I won’t lie, part of it had to do with the amazingly unreal coffee I had at Prospect Perk, on Sterling Place just off of Flatbush Avenue. While technically Prospect Heights, the neighborhoods are so close that in my mind it doesn’t really matter (although, having since learned more about Park Slope, its residents might…but more about that soon). The coffee at Prospect Perk is all fair-trade, and it’s an independent business—my favorite kind. I must admit, I am not a super-avid coffee drinker. I like my café au lait from time to time, but I don’t need a cup o’ joe to get my day started. However, when I was in Park Slope/Prospect Heights the first time, I wanted my iced coffee fix. I was rewarded with the Love Buzz coffee which, according to a little sign at the register, was supposed to have undertones of fudge. “Yeah, right,” I thought to myself. How freaking pretentious. But then I tasted the coffee. Mixed with some half-and-half, it was like drinking a creamy, dark chocolate milkshake. No, it was better than a milkshake. I don’t know what it was, really. It was liquidy but thick because of the half-and-half, and the fudge taste made my mouth water even while I was still drinking the iced coffee. This was without a doubt the best coffee I had ever tasted. I would make the hour-ish trip out to Brooklyn for this coffee.

And, last Saturday, I did.

Well, for the most part. I definitely wanted my Prospect Perk fix, but I also wanted to take another look at the architecture in the area, and see what the deal was with all of this Prospect Park hype. Like Central Park, Prospect Park was also designed by Frederick Law Olmstead, this time along with Calvert Vaux. I had heard multiple times that Prospect Park rivaled Central Park in beauty and, as I often do, I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.

This trip to Park Slope, my first stop was at Prospect Perk, this time for a warm coffee drink as we were now fully entrenched in fall (my last visit jean shorts were still de rigeur). This time I went further up Flatbush Avenue to Berkeley Place, and my jaw dropped open again. I had visions of little girls running around in petticoats and pigtails, little boys in overall shorts with cris-crossed suspenders chasing them, mother hens looking down at them from parlor windows in long gowns, long hair bundled and pinned into wispy updos. I felt like I had stepped into another world, and as I continued down the street, it stayed that way.

Berkeley Place eventually took me up to Grand Army Plaza. On the crisp fall day, there wasn’t a cloud above, the sky blue and clear. Also designed by Olmstead and Vaux, Grand Army Plaza features what is known as New York’s answer to the Arc de Triomphe, erected for Union heroes of the Civil War. Opposite that is the grand Brooklyn Public Library and, that day, the Grand Army Plaza Greenmarket. The Greenmarket, like the one at Union Square, is home to local vendors of everything from cheese to soap to wool to pumpkin seeds and more. It’s just at the edge of the famed Prospect Park, too.

Instead of going into the park first, though, I instead made my way up Prospect Park West which, from my estimation seems to be a scaled-down version of the homes on the Upper West Side. Instead of immensely tall buildings, the townhomes lining the street are short, but I’m willing to bet they’re still palatial, even comparable to the ones on Central Park West. I am still in awe at the beauty of this neighborhood.

As I walk up this street, I realize something I had been missing in Manhattan—though it was now properly the middle of October, I had not yet seen leaves on the ground, much less changed in color. But Prospect Park West, and Park Slope in general, was swimming in them. Crunchy, brown, yellow, red leaves that are the signifiers of fall were nowhere to be seen anywhere I had been walking recently in Manhattan (I hadn’t been to Central Park in a while). I was shocked at how city living had deprived me of something so inherently Mid-Atlantic. It was, dare I say it, an out-of-city experience.

I then ventured into Prospect Park which, it’s true, is quite beautiful. I can’t say for certain whether it’s more beautiful than Central Park because I have just been in Central Park so many times, but I do still think Prospect Park is lovely and would certainly not mind going back. Amidst a big green field trees were on fire with red and yellow leaves; a yellow Labrador ran leashless; a group of young people set up a volleyball court. For a good while I forgot I was in New York, but in a really good way—that way where you feel a bliss of having traveled somewhere new…though you really haven’t traveled that much at all.

It would have been, by all accounts, fair to say that I loved Park Slope. I was not aware, however, of its rather unpleasant reputation for yuppie families and stroller bullies. As my friend AD says, “It’s kind of the douchiest part of Brooklyn.” The same sentiments were echoed by Lynn Harris in her 2008 New York Times article “Park Slope: Where is the Love?” Sad times! My love for the area was based mostly on the architecture, superficial, I know, so I do still feel justified and not like a douche in liking it. Though I would never actively choose to be anywhere near someone pushing a $500 stroller while bragging about their English Lit degree from Williams College. What I can hope, though, is that if I ever move to Park Slope, when I get there all of these stroller bullies will be living in Westchester. Maybe the suburbs are good for something after all.

Kimchi on My Hot Dog

“I wanna eat something weird,” I say to SW. “Or a hot dog.” 

Miraculously, we are able to combine my two cravings and we make our way to Asiadog, in the ambiguous SoHo/NoLIta/Chinatown area on Kenmare and Mott. Asiadog’s menu is quite simple—hot dogs with Asian-inspired toppings. For those who squirm at the thought of anything but ketchup, mustard, relish, etc. on a hot dog, Asiadog will certainly test your limits. However, if you are open-minded as SW and I were, then you will without a doubt have your mind blown.

The owners, known only as Mel and Steve, say on their website that “coming from mixed Asian backgrounds, we celebrate NYC's diversity by incorporating flavors found in China, Korea, Vietnam, Japan, and more.” There’s such simplicity in this statement, but that’s what's great about Asiadog as a whole—it’s a simple concept (a hot dog) topped with delightful, delicious complexities (the toppings).

The Asiadog logo. Brilliance.

SW and I almost pass the tiny storefront on Kenmare street, which I am only able to identify because of its chopsticks-holding-hot-dog logo. It is a tiny yet smartly-outfitted space, with one long l-shaped wooden booth in front of which sit three tiny tables and stools. Asiadog also pops up at places like Brooklyn Flea, Madison Square Eats, and more. The nature of the food is fast, though it’s certainly not “fast food,” because that’s just what hot dogs are. SW and I walk up to the counter and the friendly cashier takes our order on an iPad (SW and I are both utterly bedazzled already), swiping SW’s credit card on a tiny mechanism attached to the gadget. She text messages him his receipt from the iPad because, well, she can.

As far as dogs go, there are seven different kinds—Ginny, Ito, Mel & Steve, Vinh, Mash, Wangding, and Sidney—and their toppings collectively include things like potato chips, seaweed flakes, pork pate, sesame slaw, crushed peanuts, and pork belly. You have the option of ordering a flavor of dog, too, be it chicken, pork, veggie, beef, or organic beef. The store is also known for its Korean style Barbeque Bulgogi Burger.

Taking Asiadog up on their sweet deal of two dogs for $8 (they’re $4.50 individually), I order the Ito and Vinh dogs (both beef, whole wheat buns), while SW opts for Sidney and Mash (chicken and beef, white bread buns). The Ito dog is topped with Japanese curry and homemade kimchi apples. The Vinh is a Vietnamese bahn-mi style dog, graced with aioli, pate, cilantro, jalapeno and a slaw of cucumbers, pickled carrot and daikon radish. SW’s concoctions were as follows: Sidney –“Thai-style relish with mango, cucumber, red onion, cilantro, crushed peanuts, and fish sauce” and Mash – “Spicy ketchup, jalapeno mustard, crushed salt and pepper, and potato chips.”

SW and I are excited for these hot dogs, topped with crazy wonderful weird awesome ingredients. I’ll admit, I am generally one of those people who is frightened of non-traditional hot dog toppings (the thought of a chili dog makes my face do the same thing as the sight of dog droppings on the street or Donald Trump), but I have heard of Asiadog’s legitness (The New York Times, New York Magazine, etc.) so I am not worried this time.

Our dogs come out quickly and we dive right in, sharing bites to see what each tastes like. The Vinh has a nice crunchy, clean bite to it, but the Ito is my favorite. The Japanese curry is spicy but not too spicy, packed with delicious veggies like green and red pepper, and the kimchi apple is its perfect companion, clean and cool. What was even more interesting is that while the curry tasted oh-so-yummy on its own, it was even better atop the beef dog, sandwiched by the whole wheat roll.

I realize how much thought really goes into creating such a menu—not only do the combinations have to taste good as toppings, but they have to taste good on any dog the customer might choose to order, in any bun they choose. There’s math involved in there, but I forget what kind it’s called (I’m sure there’s similar math involved in all restaurants, but I find this math particularly interesting.). Even so, it’s cool that Mel & Steve have been able to guarantee that each dog will be a bearer of deliciousness. I am delighted that on a dark and seemingly abandoned street one can find such unusual, thought-provoking delicacies.

Had decency permitted, I would have licked my fingers clean and mopped up any stray toppings with the leftover hot dog bun. Oh wait…

Occupy Wall Street

I went downtown to see what all the fuss was about.

Opportunity

The sky is cloudless, the kind of blue Crayons hope desperately to be. Light pours directly into the intersection of 57th Street and 8th Avenue, spilling gold onto the asphalt. The air is cool on my legs and I worry I should be wearing tights of some kind, but it’s too late now. I click-clack on my heels across the street, eventually running on the tips of my toes to beat the light and make it across the street on time.

-

Sometimes I ask myself if I shouldn’t try living somewhere else (gasp! I know, me of all people…), just to try out a different life for a while, to explore somewhere else, to have new experiences, start a blog about living in another new place. I think to myself, New York is just a city, right? You can do the same things here that you can do anywhere.

Wrong. Absolutely wrong. Completely wrong.

Because, for me anyway, New York is where absolutely every opportunity exists. It’s in a park, it’s in a boutique, it’s at a conference, it’s on a damn street corner. Because this city is just crawling with ambitious, exciting people who do fascinating things for a living, many of whom are more than happy to tell you about it, and you can meet them anywhere. By some stroke of weird luck—although they say luck is when preparation meets, you guessed it, opportunity—they will maybe even like you and offer to help you with your goals. They’ve worked hard too, and they know how difficult it is to make it. This city is full of people who understand karma.

It gets to a point where you can prepare yourself into oblivion, but if you aren’t exposing yourself to any opportunities, then all of that preparation is lost on you. New York offers the opportunities. It is the center of industry after industry after industry, all waiting for little people like me to come in and just knock on their doors and say hello.

Too many people don’t think you can do that, though. You want to talk to someone at the top of their field? Who are you? A semi-recent college grad? Yeah, right. 

I used to think that, too. But New York has taught me guts. Just reach out. Because in this city, sometimes you will be on the same street corner as Robert DeNiro or Judith Thurman or Ivanka Trump. These supposedly untouchable people walk around on the same streets that everyone else does. They put their pants on the same way. As the great Penny Arcade once said to me, “I’m just a person.” I learned another lesson from my mother a long time ago—the worst thing anyone can ever tell you is no. So why not say hello?

-

I ascend the escalator in the shiny, modern Hearst Corporation building. A glass fountain runs down either side of me, shiny metal beams crossing far above my head. I look at myself in the mirrored edge of the escalator and thank myself for having guts, for seeing an opportunity and going for what I wanted. Look what you did, I think. Look where you’re going.

I am headed to the floor of one of the most fantastic fashion magazines in the world, to have a meeting with a top editor. She had been kind enough to make time in her day to speak to me. I was, and continue to be, honored and humbled at the same time. What a gift to be given, by such a person. If you are reading this LB, there are not enough words. Thank you so much.

I open the door to the features department and step inside. I simply think, yes. This is why you live in New York. I make a mental note to remind myself of this feeling. This is what an opportunity feels like.

Reading Henry Miller on the Subway

At 7pm, I exit the main branch of the New York Public Library, having spent all day inside a palatial reading room. I’m not complaining by any means, because I love staring at the ornate gold mouldings and rows upon rows of ancient wooden desks, but my feet were near frozen. I must remember to wear a closed shoe of some variety when I go there again because sandals that leave my feet mostly naked are not really an option.

I walk down the beautiful white stairs, holding on to the gold railing. I’m wearing a red dress, almost like Audrey Hepburn in that scene from Funny Face, if Audrey Hepburn were carrying a bagful of writing materials and wondering where the hell her cell phone is.

Outside, the air has the slight chill and stronger wind of early fall. It is already dark and if there were any traces of summer left they’re now gone. In true Elyssa fashion, however, I am still dressed for summer and the fall breeze rushes right through me. By the time I arrive in Grand Central Station, I am cold enough to buy a Café au Lait from Financier, which turns out to be a good choice because they give free, tiny pastries with each purchase. Scores of people rush past me, men in their late 30s and early 40s looking to catch the MetroNorth back to their suburban lives. My plans, thankfully, are different.

I am headed where I always go when I am by myself and have no plans in particular: The Strand. On the corner of 12th Street and Broadway, just off of Union Square, The Strand occupies four floors packed top to bottom, inside and out, with books, books, more books, and miscellaneous things book readers love, like Moleskines, calendars, and a variety of tote bags emblazoned with The Strand logo. The store is said to have in its clutches over 18 miles of used and new books, which is longer than the length of Manhattan. I always feel at home when I go there, running my fingers over the colorful paperbacks, reading the summaries in hopes of finding the next book that I will call my own and hold close to my heart as I walk through the city looking for a place to sit and read.

Today I found myself hovering in Fiction, a pleasant surprise since I am often drawn to other areas, like Sociology, Photography, New York History, Creative Non-Fiction, Journalism and, of late, Food Writing. I have to be in the right mood for Fiction, mostly because I have always preferred the truth to the imaginary. Staring up and up and up at the bookshelves, around each corner and into each crevice where books are stacked, I’m thinking a modern classic tonight, but I don’t really know where to begin. I contemplate Nabokov, Updike, Janowitz, and others before I spot Tropic of Cancer. The novel by Henry Miller I remember is advertised in the front window in a celebration of Banned Book Week (I will find out later that upon publication, Tropic of Cancer was banned in all English-speaking countries. I think this is pretty badass.) Deciding I could go for a bit of salacity and dry wit from the 1930s, I pick up the book and, involuntarily, hold it close to my heart. Miller and I have already begun our love affair, and I am eager to jump into bed with him later. I realize a smile crossing my face and remember just how long it’s been since I bought a new book—my income is not as disposable as it once was, so I am only the utmost selective when purchasing a book. Sometimes too selective. I think it has been almost six months. Nevertheless, I am glad to have chosen Miller to end the dry spell, in what is perhaps a perfect exercise in irony.

I tell the cashier no thanks, I don’t want a bag for my book and I walk out happily holding it in my hand. I am excited when I remember I will have time to start the book on the train, as it will take about 15-20 minutes to get to my stop. I enter the station, and sit and wait for my train. Another gift of reading time! The subway station is loud and clatters and clangs with the noise of incoming and outgoing trains and passengers, but funnily enough it is a perfect place to read. Once my eyes start taking in the words, external sounds fade to nothing and I am lost in a sea of quiet punctuated only by the words in the novel. Is this what being a New Yorker feels like?

A blond man to my left with a bag of Whole Foods groceries at his feet asks if I’m enjoying the book. I smile and say I’ve just purchased it, but I hope so! He is visiting for three weeks from New Zealand, he says, so he has a lot of time to read. I smile again and turn back to my book. I could have easily kept talking to this attractive man and perhaps we would have started a grand love affair, but I am not interested, especially since the far more interesting Miller is in my lap at the moment. Just call me Belle (start video at 1:02).

Eventually the man departs and offers his goodbyes, and my own train shows up. I get on and open the book again, wanting to ingest as much of the book as I can (I sometimes find it difficult to read elsewhere because I always think I should be doing something else). But I quickly realize I really am a funny girl with her head stuck in a book—I have gotten on a train going in the wrong direction, which I have not done since I moved to New York. This Miller chap has quite a spell over me it seems. Ah, well! More time to read on the train home.

Buttery, Flaky Deliciousness

You wouldn’t think there’s a place called Sunnyside in a city that had three blizzards last winter, but strangely enough there is. It’s a neighborhood tucked away in Queens, right off the 7 train, that I had the pleasure of visiting when writing a story about it for a magazine recently. My assignment was to walk around the neighborhood and find cool things to do, places to eat, things to see. It turns out Sunnyside is a cultural fondue pot, with vendors and restaurants from places all over the world—everywhere  from Nepal and Russia to China and Colombia. 

Though it didn’t make it into the article, my favorite place was Nita’s European Bakery, a Romanian bakery in a little space snuggled right next to Greenpoint Avenue under a yellow vinyl sign for about 30 years. I absolutely loved its warmth. Two little tables sat to the slight left of the doorway, display cases filled with cookies, cakes, and pastries savory and sweet forming an L shape. Romanian crooners’ CDs were sold behind the counter, along with coffee, iced or hot, for $1.50-$2.25. Jugs of candy lined the edges of the cases. Signs in Romanian written in swirling, red cursive hung on the wall. In the back, the owner apologized for not being able to answer my questions right away because she was in the middle of making a meringue.

So often in Manhattan, or anywhere if you really think about it, you’ve got bored teenagers with lip piercings they’ll one day regret shoving your cupcakes into a paper box, smudging the frosting all over the inside, not even caring about where the sprinkles end up. The attendants at Nita’s, however, were just so kind. Yes, they knew I was there for a magazine, but I’ve had people respond not-so-nicely even upon hearing that. They offered me buttery, flaky pateuri—like a puff pastry, almost—stuffed with beef (or cheese, if you so desire), that melted in my mouth. 

 

They helpfully explained all of the different Romanian pastries (it’s a Romanian bakery), like savarina (vanilla cake with orange syrup), amandina (chocolate cake with rum syrup, chocolate crème and chocolate icing), and mascota (chocolate ganache, dried fruit, lime, lemon, orange peel and dark chocolate). Each of the delicious-sounding treats, which were really quite large, clocked in at only $2.25 each. I couldn’t believe it—the mere sight of such delicacies in Manhattan costs $5 at least! But the bakery was inexpensive AND delicious (MASSIVE sugar cookies for only 75 cents!), though it is cash only.

“Here, have a Linzer tart!” the girls behind the counter smiled. Having already had my fill of pateuri, I laughed and declined, but they happily persisted. “No, it’s fine! You have that one savory, and this one sweet! You take it home and eat it later.” Okay, I said finally. Who was I to decline a Linzer tart that was half the size of my face? I thanked the girls profusely, and we all smiled. I just felt so welcomed into their store, even as a complete stranger. I think that they would treat anyone so kindly who came in there, however.

I know I am not wrong when an elderly woman sitting at one of the tables pipes up. Her name is Mary, and she was born and raised in Sunnyside. She has been coming to Nita’s for a very long time, she says. “She’s one of our best customers!” one of the girls smiles behind the counter. Nobody goes back someplace repeatedly if they’re not treated well, no matter how buttery, flaky and delicious the pastries may be. This makes me happy, and I’m glad that even when the reporter leaves the customers will still be treated kindly. Their delightful nature actually kept me in good spirits the whole day. There are few times I have felt so instantly welcomed upon entering a place, in New York or anywhere for that matter. 

Not one for sweets usually, I didn’t actually get around to eating my Linzer tart until about a week later. I was expecting it to have gone stale and crumbly, but no such thing happened. The cookie was fluffy, if that’s possible, and the powdered sugar stuck deliciously to my lips as I sunk my teeth in. The raspberry jelly was fruity and not too sugary, and with the fluffy cookie it was surreal. For your fill of Romanian and non-Romanian deliciousness, check out Nita’s European Bakery, at 40-10 Greenpoint Avenue in Sunnyside, Queens (718.784.4047). I decided this is the kind of stuff they serve in Heaven, if such a place does actually exist.

Brighton Beach Memoirs

Taking Neil Simon as my inspiration, I decided my next big adventure would be to Brighton Beach, in Brooklyn. Brighton Beach is Coney Island’s Russian exchange student roommate. Though it’s right next door to Coney Island (you can actually see the Wonder Wheel from the Brighton Beach boardwalk), Brighton Beach parties with the other Russian exchange students, accounting for its nickname, Little Odessa. European Jews were some of the first people to settle in Brighton Beach, but eventually these families made their way out of the area by the 1970s and 1980s. Then, a new wave of Russian immigrants entered the area and grew it into the bustling ethnic neighborhood it is today. I had never been to Russia, but I figured a visit to Brighton Beach was a good substitute for the time being.

GD, J, and I head to the shore in J’s car (a supreme luxury in itself since getting to Brighton Beach by train normally takes an hour and a half at least). Pulling up to Brighton Beach Avenue, there are grocery stores, cafes, and bars as usual, but all the signs are written in Russian first, with English underneath. It is all I had hoped for and more. “It’s like we’re back in the old country!” I exclaim to GD and J who, like myself, are of Eastern European descent. They roll their eyes and laugh.

Brighton Beach Boardwalk

After finding a parking space, the next order of business is food. I learned earlier that there are two primary competing Russian restaurants on the Brighton Beach Boardwalk, Volna and Tatiana. We decide on Tatiana. I wonder if anti-Tatiana people will start shouting at us and throwing things, but it must be a more friendly competition than advertised because nothing happens.

When we sit down, we hear the pitter patter and slur of Russian around us, which turns into broken English from our waitress as we order foods we can neither identify nor pronounce. GD and J order cheese vareniki, which turns out to be tortellini-like dumplings dusted with sugar and served with sour cream. I go for the borscht because, even as a person of Eastern European descent, I have never tried the stuff. They’re out of cold, though, so I order hot. It also comes with a side of sour cream. It’s salty and magenta-colored, with onions and celery floating about in it (they eventually sink to the bottom and hug the bowl as I devour the broth), but the salt is lessened by the freshness of the sour cream. J makes a joke about Russian rappers and hot beets.

We then make our way to the beach which, for Labor Day, is surprisingly empty. Along the boardwalk, elderly women wear burgundy velour track suits and have their hair backlit into blonde cotton candy. An elderly man snoozes on a bench wearing only a Speedo. More Russian whirls past our ears and, if it were not for Coney Island in the not-too-distant horizon, I’d think we were in another country. Even so, I’m glad the beach is empty—in my mind, that means there will be less garbage on the beach and less old men leering at me.

GD on the beach

I am right on the first count. The beach is clean, for the most part, but the sand is embedded with tiny broken pieces of glass that are on their way to turning back into sand. An old man sits on a towel close by and stares as we sit and play in the water. Can’t win ‘em all.

The waves are cold, but not too cold to play in. In the wake of Hurricane Irene, they come up to my waist which, granted, isn’t that high, but it’s bigger than you’ll get in South Florida. On the beach, a youngish mother yells at her son, Yakov, in Hebrew.

Innumerable varieties of beet products

We walk to Brighton Beach Avenue and head up and down the street, the neighborhood’s main drag. Pharmacies, supermarkets, butchers, fur vaults are all in Russian. We go into Food Heaven, which has a variety of prepared side dishes involving beets, as well as a fine selection of Russian candies and sodas.
“What’s this one?” GD asks me.
“I have no idea,” I say. “Why don’t you try it?”

Russian candy and soda

GD’s candy looks like a truffle on the outside but tastes like a strawberry marshmallow on the inside. I get one that looks like a piece of chocolate covered tofu, and kind of tastes like one, too. I also get a soda that’s bright green and has the licorice-y taste of anise. I guess you can carbonate anything if you try hard enough. We sit and watch Russian soap operas in the store as we finish our treats.

GD with Russian Harry Potter

Next up is a large Russian bookstore. We find a well-developed children’s literature section featuring Harry Potter in Russian. Throughout the rest of the store, there are also crossword puzzles with naked women on them, matryoshka dolls, CCCP t-shirts and Russian versions of magazines like Elle, Shape, and Cosmopolitan. You know, the essentials.

Last is a visit to the large local grocery store, which has cole slaw by the heaping helping in a buffet-style serving area. And the most beautiful strudels I have ever seen (rather, I did not think a strudel could be so beautiful) just hanging out in the open air. I think it’s funny how the culture of a country translates into its food markets. You don’t want? Don’t buy. We do not change for you. Take or leave. I wish I could say the same so easily for myself.

Finding our way back to the car, we head home, the ocean turning to river on our left, sun setting behind grey clouds. As we drive, I resolve to be more like that strudel.