– – On a bright September morning, I sat in a small cafe in the Barcelona Airport, staring at the change my husband had been handed back from a barista. We were about to leave Spain for New York. “What is this?” I said, holding up one of his coins. “It’s two Euros,” Rand replied, disinterested.…
Folks, I have many, many, many, many flaws. If it’s okay with you, I’d rather skip the details and just leave it at that. I’m a decent human being. I’m not a great human being. But Spain made me a slightly worse one. And I’m kind of okay with that. Despite my many flaws (see…
– I hate making split decisions. They send me into a panic. “Chocolate or vanilla?” “GAH! I DON’T KNOW! HEMAGLOBIN!” or “Paper or plastic?” “AUGGGGGHHHHH! PUT IT ALL IN A BURLAP SACK.”
Folks, I have some sad news. This will be my third and final post about Gaudi’s architectural feats in Barcelona. (In case you missed it, here’s Part One on La Pedrera and Part Two on Casa Batllo.) I know, I know. You’re devastated, aren’t you? I can tell by the way you’re joyfully skipping around…
– Remember Fraggle Rock? I positively loved that show (I’d really like to see a “Where Are They Now?” feature on the Fraggles. I hope Wembly finally got into rehab). The beginning always scared me, though. Something about the baseline, and the dingy house, and the tiny mouse hole into which the Fraggles ran gave…
– I never really “got” architecture. I blame Mike Brady. Supposedly an expert in the field of home design, he squeezed six children into two bedrooms. He was no architect. He was a sadist. And – hello – is it really a good idea to cram that many biologically-unrelated children into two rooms far at…
– I am occasionally faced with a temptation that I, fortunately, have yet to act upon. My husband delicately describes it as “socially unfeasible.” I simply think it’s madness. Delicious, delicious madness. The temptation is this: I want to eat food that doesn’t belong to me. Now, before you start telling me that everyone feels…
– People are constantly marveling at my sense of sense of smell, which I find rather amusing. I tap my large and glorious nose, smile, and say, “What, you think this thing is just for show?” And while my memory is fading a bit on precisely how we ended up at Bubo, a high end…
– How does the old adage go? Photos without people in them are merely postcards? Something like that. It’s a fair criticism. But I’ve always been of the mind that photos with people in them, standing and smiling at the camera as though they were just recovering from a lobotomy, aren’t much better. I mean,…
Tales of Food, Feminism, and Fury
by Geraldine DeRuiter
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