Trail of Crumbs

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I was in Boston a little more than a week ago. It was a brief trip – two days and two nights in the city. It’s a place that I have few ties to (save for some dear friends and a couple of in-laws) but, holy cats, do I love that town.

When we were there, the city was already preparing for the marathon, which will take place this weekend. The year-anniversary of the bombings (which was this past Tuesday) was still looming large on the horizon.

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Rand and I have been on the road for a little while, so blog content has been a little thin lately (sorry about that). I’ll be back next week with some brand new posts, but in the meantime, I’ve been perusing my Flickr stream for any photos or stories that I haven’t yet shared with you.

That’s when I found the following set of photos, that Rand took in Vancouver and Bowen Island last August. As we were walking around, he kept noticing some wonderful signs outside of shops. Some were clever, some were strange, some were utterly confusing.

I find them all delightful – not just in and of themselves, but also because they give a little insight into Rand’s psyche. How he’s so hell-bent on enjoying life, that he can find amusement and wonder in just about anything.

I hope you like them, too.

  1. Wait, when did we open this shop again?

    I like it, because it works for virtually any establishment (you just need to change your definition of recently).

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  2. Hey, at least they’re direct:

    After we saw this, we kept walking everywhere, and then calling one another a “chump.”

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I love Portland.

A familiar last name on a street sign in PDX.

 

I think it’s because Portland doesn’t seem to care whether or not I love it. I find that sort of apathy-fueled confidence appealing, I think because I lack so much of it. I really, really, at all times want people to like me, and if they don’t, I spend way too much time obsessing about it.

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Salvation Mountain, California.

 

Unless we’re talking about poltergeists or the healing power of cupcakes, I could not be described as a believer. I can’t even claim that I’m spiritual and not religious, because I’m not even that. The only thing that comes close in my life is my tendency to say “HOLY CATS” when I’m shocked about something, which brings to mind a rather delightful image of a higher power of the feline persuasion.

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I know it isn’t Wednesday – I didn’t blog yesterday because I spent the entire morning and part of the afternoon downtown, participating in the largest gathering of people in Seattle, ever. It was strange and crazy and a bit magical.

And as I was flipping through my photos from Palm Springs, I came across a photo that was strange, and crazy, and a little bit magical. I took it in Niland, California, outside of the United Food Center. We were coming back from Salvation mountain (which is also strange, and crazy, et al, and I will be sure to tell you all about it next week), and I pulled into a parking lot so we could our bearings.

Rand saw him first, and as is his fashion, was able to distill the situation down to its essence in just a few words.

“That is clearly the greatest human being who has ever lived.”

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If you happen to have the chance to visit the Philadelphia Museum of Art (which is wonderful), here is a bit of advice: run up the steps to the museum.

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Just like Rocky Balboa did.

I know, I know – it’s silly and cliche. Doing so may earn you a few eye rolls from locals and museum members. Someone might quietly shake their head. You may spot someone else running up the stairs, then proceed to shadowbox when they reach the top, and you will think, Goodness, they look ridiculous.

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Paris is such a lovely city, with so much to see, that it’s easy to overlook the little things. Which is a shame, because there’s beauty in the details (ignore whoever tells you otherwise).

While walking, we passed building after building, a few which had rather incredible decorations on their doors. Check them out:

This reminded me of the scene from Labyrinth with the door knockers. Remember?

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I’d like to deviate for a moment from my pastry tour of France to discuss my dalliance with an ambiguous piece of Bavarian taxidermy.

Bavaria! Not pictured: ambiguous taxidermy.

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I should clarify (though I remain incredibly proud of that opening sentence):  when I say Bavarian, I don’t mean that the actual taxidermical practices were ones that I’d distinctly associate with southern Germany. The animal in question was not wearing lederhosen, nor was it holding a pretzel and a tiny little stein of beer (Even though that would have been absolutely amazing. And what if it had one of those little German hats? Oh, god, YES. Please let this be a thing, immediately). I simply mean that we were in Bavaria, and I’m pretty sure that this was local handiwork.

Nor do I mean to suggest that  the taxidermy itself was ambiguous. It wasn’t like … half stuffed or something. There was definite taxidermying happening. I mean, if you saw this thing, there would be no doubts: taxidermence had transpired.

No. The ambiguous part was this: we all disagreed on what the animal in question was.

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