Walkin' Around Buyin' Stuff

Today is the one year anniversary of getting my tattoo.

Bisque is in LA for a film premiere.

Chicago was predicted to be above fifty degrees.

All this is to say I hatched a plot.

I laced up my new flower tennies and dug a sundress out of my summer suitcase.

This bakery had the highest Yelp reviews.

I asked for a Pop-Tart.

There was only one flavor (peach) left for the day.

The last time I ate a peach anything

was the second to last time I saw my cousin alive,

and it was bad too. A watery orange hand pie.

But, yes, I did come all this way.

I didn't like the cafe.

There was a fluffy boy at the register who listed every single thing in the bakery case.

In a Rainman-esque way.

Even though my previous sentence was, "I'd like a Pop-Tart."

I sat down, made notes in my planner, and took a bite.

The pastry was just chewy enough.

It tasted like brown butter.

No canned peaches.

Real deal, simmered slow.

But the place still creeped me out.

Maybe I should have gone to the second best Yelp bakery.

I packed up my journal and walked another half mile in the opposite direction.

This place was hidden in an alley.

There were no tables or chairs.

There were five Pop-Tart options, so I chose cherry with chocolate icing.

I found a sunny patch of grass to dine on, but I became distracted.

There are possibilities today!

I'm still a chubby wren delicately hopping along.

My pay is meager. My schedule too full.

But right now, it's Friday afternoon, and I have nothing to be.

I went to a barber for a trim.

I can afford this today, and so, I afforded.

The number 8 bus was due to arrive in 9 minutes.

I pulled up my grey hood and ate the pastry after all.

When I saw the CVS in the bus window, I pulled the cord.

Cashews on sale, a birthday card. and a new eye shadow.

Swim with the tide, and buy when it's time to buy.

Italy: Part Four Point Five

The amount of time you have in a place is usually the amount of time you need. Over our final dinner in Rome, which, by the way, could not get more Italian (see photo), we reflected on what we might change.

Checkered tablecloth, vino, red sauce, bottled water.

Because earlier that afternoon we had made our way off the beaten track to find a pizza place only locals went to and enjoyed the feel of real city--not tourist explosion--I wished we had done something similar in Florence. On our way back into the city hub we passed Romans buying shoes off sidewalk tables, and I ate a rose gelato.

The best mushroom pizza ever.

My other regrets were a contemporary art museum in Venice (I had plumb forgot on our one short day) and not noticing our hotel in Rome was adjacent to an excellent-looking bakery until we were walking to dinner and it was closed. Three minor regrets? Overall, we killed it.

Hotel breakfast.

The Vatican was expensive, but now I've seen the Sistine Chapel. It looks like the pictures though. Not sure if that makes it more or less important to see. We also accidentally planned our visit for Wednesday morning mass. No wonder there were so many people milling around the piazza! I've now seen the pope.

Pope, yo.

Borghese Gallery was the best way to spend our last afternoon. If you don't know, the Borghese is all about making connections from various aesthetics and time periods to conformed ideas. While Renaissance art isn't necessarily my jam, the nectar of inference is. Fitting for a big trip. When we return to where we're from, our biggest baggage are the connections we carry.

Me as an extra in a Wes Anderson film set in Borghese Gardens.

We woke up at 6 to offer plenty of time for an 11 AM flight, but once we were ready we were alerted via email the flight had been bumped two hours later. "You know what this means," said Bisque. And of course he meant that regret bakery would be open! We bought a tiny apple pastry, a napoleon, and a ricotta fluff. Coupled with the light Italian breakfast we always had at hotels and the copious orange juice I drank on the plane, it was a sugary trip back to Arizona. I was ready.

Ciao, Italia!

It's easier to be Puff, but it's harder to be Sean.