retroperspective.

We found a bunch of quite entertaining old photos back at the Tomanek compound yesterday, or two days ago, or whenever we left. I'm going to start posting them when I get a chance. Above, we have some douchebag mockery from pre-meltdown 2007 (which reminds me, LATFH). Below, a very serious picture from 2004.

















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Yes. So...rounding up some lessons learned and other miscellany from our most recent On The Road segment:

• Sometimes you cash in. Because we used to travel a lot but don't so much anymore, we've had a ton of Frequent Flyer miles just sitting around for years now waiting to be annulled by one or more airlines' financial collapse. So we decided to dust them off for this last transatlantic flight by upgrading to first class.
  
  Was it worth it? I don't know: a Delta Frequent Flyer mile is equal to how many Euro these days? None. So, yes, considering that it didn't cost us any actual money, yes I would say that it was worth every bit of zero actual money.
  
  Complex calculations would be necessary to quantify the value of little things like adequate leg room, reclinability, and not having to sleep while touching elbows with a stranger. Not-so-complex calculations could assess the downside of babies (and their asshole parents) being allowed in first class. Not all babies, mind you, just those with asshole parents. But overall I think I can say that first class made flying less shitty. Oh, but the food? Not good.
  
  
• Sometimes you miscalculate. One day I was shopping for Latin American exotica in a small Mexican/Peruvian grocery near the Big Chicken, and a woman came up to me. Here is an approximate transcript of our conversation:
  
  Her: (unintelligible)
  Me: I'm sorry, non habla Español.
  Her: (unintelligible)
  Me: non habla Español, sorry!
  Her: You don't speak English?
  Me: No I don't speak English.
  Her: Ah. Interesting...
  Me: Yes.
  
  What follows is four minutes of me pretending not to speak English. I think my thinking was that, if I didn't speak English or Spanish, I could avoid an awkward conversation. Wrong: it turns out that she is Kenyan and is happy to learn about other non-English-speaking cultures like mine.
  
  Her: (holding up can of corn) In my country we call this "maize". What do you call it in your country?
  Me: "Mais".
  Her: Ah....very interesting.
  Me: Yes.
  
  I felt bad after about ten seconds of this, because she seemed sweet and in fact it's possible that she may even have been hitting on me. But in a conversation, once you have pretended to not speak English, it is tough to change your position on this without appearing really crazy. So we talked for another three minutes about corn, and the weather, and then she left me there, silently congratulating herself on not being the most fucked-up immigrant in town.
  
  
• Sometimes you say "meh". A couple Fridays ago when we were in Virginia-Highland, we were naturally looking for somewhere to eat. Somewhere interesting, dark, and within walking distance. We ended up at Pura Vida (watch out for annoying website music, menu here), one of Atlanta's 50 Best Restaurants, according to the AJC.
  
  It was HOT out, and the interior was a perfect antidote to the sweltering mess we'd been walking around in: cool breezes from ceiling fans everywhere, and so dark that we could barely see each other when we first went in.
  
  We sat at the bar and tried to return to a normal human body temperature via icy cold caipirinhas and mojitos. The cocktails were frankly perfect. The food? Not exactly bad in any way, but nothing I don't think we couldn't do ourselves, and nothing I would be in a hurry to order again. I'll take some of the blame for this, I ordered kind of conservatively: shrimp cocktail diablo with butternut gelee; duck confit with caramelized plantains; fried zucchini blossoms with smoked sour cream. All good, but just the tiniest bit boring. Upshot: we had a good time, but not really because of the food. And our bartender had a great laugh, like a honking goose, a total mismatch with his physical appearance.
  
  
• Sometimes you run out of time. I never did get to a Waffle House. Or Chat Patti. Or a single one of the current barbecue darlings. Boo. But I'll be back in October.
  
  
• Sometimes you forget what's exotic. One day when we went to Alon's, we bought a piece of stinky cheese, a bottle of rosé, and some flatbread crisps. 23 dollars, at least twice what we'd pay here. Cheese and wine prices in America continue to amaze.
  
  
• Sometimes you reap what you sow. This was the first time I've been to Atlanta in the summer in many years, and seeing what came out of Jeanie's garden this trip made me want to Do That Myself.
  

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