The Everywhereist

I know, I know. You guys were probably expecting the exciting conclusion of yesterday’s post, in which I tell you all about snorkeling in the Great Barrier Reef, and also whether or not there were kittens. Unfortunately, I realized that all those photos are still on Rand’s laptop, and I’m currently overcome with a strong case of jet lag and laziness, so instead, I’m going to talk about how crazy expensive food on Hayman Island was.

You can have lunch, but you’re going to have to sell your plasma to afford it.

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My family has instilled in me a great number of strange habits and beliefs; among them is the notion that food shouldn’t cost much money. As is their wont, my family has taken this belief to the extreme. Most flat-out refuse to ever go to restaurants (their logic: “You just pay more for stuff that you can get at home!”), and many of their groceries are purchased on clearance, from those weird discount bins at the end of aisles (you know – the ones filled with seasonal cake decorations and dented canned goods).

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To this day, I have fond memories of my English class senior year of high school.

Even though it was (ahem) a little while ago, I remember it acutely. Our teacher was a gentleman named Mr. Willems, who remains to this day one of the best instructors I’ve ever had. He was fond of cardigans and sweater vests, spoke French, and would occasionally make us popcorn or bring in cream puffs and show us film adaptations of whatever we were reading at the time.

He’d ask questions of the class, and when no hands would pop up, he’d say (often en français), “If there are not volunteers, there will be victims.”

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Do you remember the interstitial sketch from Monty Python where John Cleese would say, “And now for something completely different?”

That seems like the perfect way to start off today’s post. Because today I am moving away from South Africa to tell you about the few brief days we spent in London. And I am not going to talk about the very important but nevertheless depressing things that I have talked about for the last few weeks. No mention of rape, or murder, or bombings, or anything like that.

No. Today’s post will about something completely different: bagels.

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Rand, just prior to our miracle berry dinner.

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The other day, I was lamenting to myself (and by extension, to my long-suffering husband) about the death of wonderment in my adult years. How there were now so many known variables in our lives, so many answered questions. There were very few decisions to make. Very little was new.

“I just remember high school, and thinking I had all these opportunities in front of me, and all these choices to make. And now those choices have been made. And I’m not upset how life turned out, you know? I’m happy with the decisions I’ve made. I’m just sad that I don’t have all of that in front of me anymore.”

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Palmiers served during tea time at the Kloof.

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We first arrived at Bushman’s Kloof in the late afternoon. It had been an absurdly hot day, and the sun was now inching back towards the horizon. It was the sort of weather that makes you swear that you will never eat anything again that isn’t presented to you in popsicle form.

Still, when our lodge manager, Malcolm, explained that most people chose to do high tea instead of lunch, I felt my finger begin to wave in protest, an “OH HELL NO” forming on my lips. Bushman’s Kloof was all-inclusive. I wasn’t about to have them save money by serving me a stale scone and a cup of tea at 2 o’clock and expect that it would tide me over until dinnertime.

That, of course, was before we had tea at the Kloof. And before I realized that this wasn’t the sort of place where they cut corners. Except, perhaps, if you requested that corners be cut (specifically, off of your finger sandwiches).

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Once again, I wax poetic about baked goods.

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Do you ever have moments of extreme clarity?

I’m not referring to those times when the skies above you are cloud free, or when your skin is looking absent of blemishes, almost to the point of vulnerability. No. I live in Seattle, and I eat lots of cake. My clarity does not manifest itself in those terms. (more…)

Our lunch at Queen of Tarts. Notice the conspicuous absence of actual tarts.

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After my brain surgery, I had trouble accepting that I was unchanged.

“Do I seem different?” I would ask Rand, time and again.

“No,” he’d reply. “Baby, you are exactly the same.”

And I’d stare at my reflection in the mirror, at my steroid-induced moonface, and say, “But I look different.”

“It’s not how you look,” he’d remind me. “It’s what’s on the inside that counts.”

“BUT MY INSIDES FEEL DIFFERENT,” I’d yell.

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The easily missed facade of Skinflint.

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I’d never heard the term “skinflint” before visiting Dublin.

Truth be told, it sounds rather dirty. Like, “Did you hear about Janine? She caught skinflint while riding on the subway.” Or, “I’ve heard he’s done a lot of things in the past that he’s not proud of. Like, you know … skinflint.” Or, “Be sure to scrub between your genitals and your leg.”

I realize I forgot to use “skinflint” in that last sentence. But I left it there, because it’s just sound advice.

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