I’ve logged a lot of miles in the past year and the last few months have been overwhelmingly busy as I prepare to leave Paris to live in the Bay Area again. My first year in Paris saw little European travel, so I had to make up for it in the last year. I’ve been capturing them in photographs and can go back in time via Flickr. Here’s a list of cities and areas my poor tired feet have visited

• Amiens, France
• Amsterdam, Holland
• Athens, Greece
• Belfast, Northern Ireland
• Bordeaux, France
• Bucharest, Romania
• Budapest, Hungary
• Brugges, Belgium
• Brussels, Belgium
• Chartre, France
• Chateau Thierry, France
• Dijon, France
• Evian, France
• Greek Islands
• Geneva, Switzerland
• Gruyere, Switzerland
• Istanbul, Turkey
• Le Mans, France
• London, UK
• Madrid, Spain
• Mont St. Michel, France
• Prague, Czech Republic
• Reykjavik, Iceland
• Rennes, France
• San Diego, USA
• San Francisco Bay Area, USA
• Seattle and Pugent Bay Area, USA
• Iceland’s krona proves the magic wand as Europe ails (telegraph.co.uk)
• International Real Estate: For Sale In … Iceland (nytimes.com)

Iceland and Istanbul were two areas at the top of my list. Fortunately I was able to visit them and they exceeded my expectations.

Iceland

I visited Iceland in the middle of January, shortly after the economy took a major dive and the government officials decided to quit. I was a bit worried about what the country would be like, so like a good Parisian I packed some extra cheese and Poilane bread.

Iceland is an amazing country. I remember in elementary school learning about this island with the deceitful name. Oh those tricky vikings who mixed up Greenland and Iceland to keep visitors on their toes…

I didn’t walk around Iceland as much as I fell on my ass and subsequently dragged myself to a pseudo-standing position. I’m a city boy and my idea of snow/ice shoes are not recommended for a country covered in frozen water. Luckily I was able to soak my tired bones and bruised butt in their local swimming pools and the bizarre, yet relaxing Blue Lagoon. Soaking in an outdoor hot springs with cold mud on your face while the outside temperature is -3 degrees Celsius is something you need to experience to understand.

Do yourself a favor and purchase some music by Sigur Ros before heading to Iceland. There’s nothing like flying through the clouds and onto the island while listening to their music. In fact, I listen to Sigur Ros almost every time I fly.

I’d love to visit Iceland again. I will visit Iceland again! Iceland Air offers free layovers when you fly to Europe. This allows you to stop for a day in Reykjavik and visit the Blue Lagoon before heading to Europe and back.

Istanbul

There was an exhibition of Turkish artwork at the San Diego Museum of Art while I worked there. I can’t say this is what planted the seed to visit this country. I think it also was the compounding interest from everyone that has spoken about its mysteriousness.

Most of the areas I have visited are primarily Christian, the exception being Bangalore, India. Istanbul was the first Islamic country that I’ve been in and the vibe is definitely different. I am agnostic, so I have no preference for one religion over another. In fact, I’ve probably been in more religious buildings of various faiths than anyone I know (except Philippe). That being said, I had a great interest in learning about the Mosques and Islamic culture of Turkey. I also wanted to see the ancient mosaics within Hagia Sophia.

There are several things that stand out in Istanbul.

The prayer calls that punctuate the day become a rythm that you miss as soon as you leave the country.

The Turkish people are extremely friendly and outgoing. It’s actually a bit unsettling at first, as you may think everyone is out to scam you. At some point you accept the people truly are friendly and go with the flow.

I was perhaps a bit too trusting while in Istanbul, but it led to some great experiences. The first night I was standing near the Hagia Sophia and was approached by a local man who I expected was a scam artist. But I accepted his offer of a quick tour and he showed me around the area, the Blue Mosque, the columns, and Hagia Sophia. Yes, he did end up asking me if I was interested in buying a carpet, but he was ready to accept no as an answer. I enjoyed the tour and followed him to his favorite rug store.

The rug store assigned the art historian to me and we looked at about 50 carpets for well over an hour as we discussed color, history, symbolism, the construction process, and much more. I told them I was not interested in buying but would love to learn about the rugs as a work of art.

Needless to say, I bought a rug that day. It’s truly special and not something I would have ever found outside Istanbul. It’s a nomadic carpet that features the village the weaver grew up in. They say it was made by a single woman for her dowry, whether that is true or not I don’t care. It’s a beautiful rug and I’ll enjoy it for many years. It cost about $3,000.

The next day, after a long afternoon of walking, I met another man who wanted to introduce me to a rug store. I told him I had just bought one and wasn’t interested. I was, however, interested in finding a hamam to experience the true Turkish massage. I’d walked past a couple tourist joints but wanted to visit a place for locals.

He offered to take me to one if I purchased his entry as well. That seemed fair enough so we hopped in his car and headed to a small working-class neighborhood near the river. He told the hamam owner to give me the works and it did not disappoint. At some points I thought the guy was gonna leave permanent damage, but it was all worth it. The massage is given while you are laying on a warm marble slab. He uses soapy water instead of oil or powder. In the end you skin is squeaky clean and your body feels amazingly revitalized. The total cost for both of us was about 100 Euros.

I also got a tour of the city by one of my former Yahoo! co-workers. We visited Taksim square and toured the vibrant nightlife areas of Istanbul. There’s a great tower that you can visit to see the area. It’s where the first man flew, as he glided from the tower to the riverside below.

Finally, I met one other Turkish man that showed me several parts of the city, including Pierre Loti hill and the important mosque and graveyard at the base. I highly recommend visiting this area and reading the stories by Pierre Loti, a french author that fell in love with the city and its people.

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• Iceland’s krona proves the magic wand as Europe ails (telegraph.co.uk)
• International Real Estate: For Sale In … Iceland (nytimes.com)

I flew from Paris to Bucharest yesterday on Air France. The plane was late coming in and the turnaround made us about an hour behind schedule.

I didn’t really think much of it, hour long delays are within a reasonable period. Perhaps if there was a connecting flight and I got stuck… But it was just a direct flight.
I wouldn’t say the delay was transparent, it made me hustle from the airport (crawl in traffic is more like it), check into the hotel, and jump on another taxi to the University for the presentation.

So, here’s the point. I received an email today from Air France apologizing for the hour delay; letting me know it isn’t standard and they are crediting my account 2,000 miles.

Let me assure you that the delay you experienced on this occasion was not in
line with the high levels of service we aim to provide.

As gesture of genuine regret for the inconvenience suffered on this occasion, I
am pleased to inform you that 2000 Miles will be credited to your Flying Blue
account within the next few days.
-Air France Customer Support Email

That’s pretty cool. I have never gotten such an email or apology from American Airlines, Northwest, Southwest, British Airlines, or any other that I’ve used.

Thanks A.F.

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12th Arrondissement (Bois de Vincennes/Gare de Lyon) Very few out-of-towners came here until a French chef opened a restaurant called Au Trou Gascon. The 12th’s major attraction remains the Bois de Vincennes, sprawling on the eastern periphery of Paris. This park is a longtime favorite of French families who enjoy its zoos and museums, its royal châteaux and boating lakes, and its Parc Floral de Paris, a celebrated flower garden boasting springtime rhododendrons and autumn dahlias. Venture into the dreary Gare de Lyon for Le Train Bleu, 20 bd. Diderot (tel. 01-43-43-09-06), in the Gare de Lyon, 12e, a restaurant whose ceiling frescoes and Art Nouveau decor are national artistic treasures; the food is good, too. The 12th, once a depressing urban wasteland, has been singled out for budgetary resuscitation and is beginning to sport new housing, shops, gardens, and restaurants. Many will occupy the site of the former Reuilly rail tracks.
Neighborhoods in Brief

Not that I’m comparing Yahoo vs. Microsoft to WWII.

Yesterday was the International Workers’ Day (May Day). We not only got that day off, but today as well. Don’t tell anyone, but I still logged in and worked on Yahoo stuff both days. Just don’t let Sarkozy know, I’d hate to have my visa pulled for not taking the required time off.

Today I used my extra time for shopping. I was hoping to buy an Aeron chair for work, as the provided chair is killing me. I could buy an Aeron off ebay in the US for about $600. It costs about $400 to ship it. But, could I get a similar price in france? $1,000 is roughly equal to about 650 euros right now. The same chair in a Paris store is selling for only 1,700 EUROS! Ouch!

Needless to say, I didn’t buy anything during my shopping expedition. I did look around. More importantly, I walked around, enjoyed the weather and got this great shot of Pont Neuf.

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Fighting for a seat on an empty train

There was this clueless woman on the train. Someone dared sit in her seat, so she stopped in the aisle for 5 minutes debating with her daughter if they should ask the person to move. Finally they got up the nerve. Keep in mind that 75% of the seats were empty. Finally, they got their fat asses into a seat and I decided to walk through the car and back out to the platform. I hate sitting in a seat while people squeeze by.

Finally, the train is ready to leave and I grabbed the premium spot with a table and electrical outlet! The seats on the train either point towards the rear or front. In the middle are the premium seats that face directly at each other. They have a little table in between.

It’s great when you have an empty train, but awkward when staring in someone’s face for two hours as they pick their nose and read gossip rags.

Well, the bitch actually decided she didn’t like her assigned seat and tried to sit in front of me. 80 empty seats and she wants to take away my leg room. 30 seconds later, I farted and she decided she didn’t want to sit there. “I want to face the front of the train,” she whined as she grabbed her daughter and left.

After that, the ride was smooth. The guy on the other side of the aisle curled into the fetal position and snored. I was able to write two blog posts, get my ass creamed by the computer in chess, and fumble through some hands of solitaire.

I’ve started yet another web site. Somebody stop the madness!

I’ve uploaded 5,000 photographs to my Flickr account. Almost half of those photos were shot in Paris, France. Hidden amongst the snap shots and bad food photos are some really good photographs.

MyParisPhotos.com is my new web site. It’s a photo blog that lets me highlight individual images. I’m still working on some formatting stuff, but it’s ready to be seen.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like this flight has been bad. There are no singing nuns, deadly snakes, or poisonous entrees. No, this flight has been filled with those little experiences that make me say to the little gremlin on the wing: “Did that just happen?”

Setting the stage

The flight started off fairly normal. I’ve got a great seat, 32G – a bulkhead aisle seat. The seat next to me is empty and a lady with her toddler sits on the other side of the vacancy. On the other side of the aisle are a couple of elderly women. One of them is frail, the other is quite sprite. Directly behind me is a French couple taking self portraits while strapped into the seats.

The rest of the plane seems to be comprised of inbred American teenagers on at school trip to Paris. No, seriously, they all have this common pie shaped, dough colored look. There is a really ugly set of patriarchs somewhere in California.

Oh, my seat is also a mere 4 feet from the restrooms/self-service area. I’ve got a steady stream of traffic to the right of me.

Hello Mr. open fly

I was treated to several visits from Mr. open fly. We’re not talking simply unzipped. I think this guy thought he was in an adult bookstore and was letting people sample the wares. He paraded up and down the aisles with the fly well open.

It reminded me of a little kid I went to  elementary school with. One day he wore overalls to school with no drawers. He delighted in letting the other kids check the contents of his pockets, hint hint, nudge nudge.

Naturally, I didn’t tell Mr. open fly that the corral was open and the horse was ready to escape. Why spoil such pregnant expectations?

The community television screen

I don’t know how we survived without individual television screens on airplanes. God bless jet blue for introducing the masses to such luxuries. Now we can fly blissfully around the world without having to share the joys of Everyone Loves Raymond with a planeful of idiots that actually think its funny.

No, we now have the ability to watch our own selection of movies, tv shows, and other special visual treats. It’s even possible to spend 9 hours watching movies without seeing Owen Wilson’s stupid nose, a “cutting” sitcom with laugh tracks galore, or the standard educational documentary featuring animals tearing each other to pieces.

No, that’s what the community screens are for. Scattered around the plane are little televisions displaying safety messages, animated stewardesses serving scalding hot coffee, maps of the world with the progress of our plane, and a disturbing collection of entertainment. I hadn’t really noticed these television’s content until this flight.

If it bleeds, it leads

I haven’t been watching the screens consistently. I’ve been trying to watch movies on my little personal slice of video heaven. Once in a while, my eye will be distracted by something twittering on the community screen, which sits about 4 feet away, next to the toddler’s suspended bassinet.

Piglets photo by ynskjen on Flickr

The first scene that grabbed my attention was a group of playful piglets trying to jump out of their pen. The pens looked like an farm from an old vampire film: dark shadows, low angle, carefully placed detritus, and a sanitary suspense. Ah look at the cute piggies.

Bam, cut to a butcher’s knife chopping through some anonymous chunk of animal corpse. One second cute piglet, next second a farmers market and dinner for some family.

This documentary then cuts to a pleasant Asian women talking to to the camera. There’s no sound, so she could be discussing the future of world peace in Africa, the art of Owen Wilson films, or the joy of slaughtering piglets. Frankly, I am assuming it is the latter. We continue to watch more scenes from Chinese markets as mysterious chunks of creatures are pulled out of woks, women plucking birds, and dogs running around scavenging for snacks and litter mates, sometimes both at the same time.

Keep in mind this is displayed on banks of televisions scattered around the plane. It’s also on some kind of demented loop. I’ve caught this documentary several times.

The broadcast hits keep on rolling

There was one particular stretch of joyous images that occurred during our meal time. Which reminds me of a particular Thanksgiving memory at the Drake house. We were gathered around the table waiting to dive into the feast.

Naturally the television was  on and for some reason it was tuned to a surgery channel instead of the normal Three’s Company marathon. Just as the food was starting to be dished out, a doctor cut open a tumorous organ and a gallon of black bile poured onto the surgical table. Yum, pass the gravy.

So, while I’m diving into my vegetarian in fight meal, the community televisions start displaying a series of bloody images. Tibetans were getting slaughtered, cartoon detectives were shooting bad guys, piglets turned into meat chunks, and the toddler next to me is making his toy ambulance crash into his toy cement mixer. “Would you like some bread with your meal?” You betcha!

The long trip to powder the nose

The frail older lady next to me needed to powder her nose a couple hours ago. This procedure involved several people as we jockeyed positions to make sure she had a clear shot to the bulkhead. Her companion assisted her. Just as she finally gets out of her seat and is heading towards the powder room, passengers from the forward section jump into the toilets and she’s forced to wait for an opening. One of the stewardesses assisted her to the premium lounges. She made it back in good shape and is now sleeping soundly.

And then Little Betty died

Little Betty is the name of my new laptop; a tiny toy of a thing made by Asus. Unfortunately, the battery died mid flight and I wasn’t able to finish documenting this flight. There were several inbred teenagers that liked to hangout at the free sodas in front of my seat. I could describe them for hours. Alas, my post-flight haze is kicking in and they’ll have to escape the brutal knife of my razor sharp wit.

I mentioned this to my buddy Glen who remarked: London restaurants make good food as good as any city in the world. But they are the best at making awful food. Amen, glory hallelujah, and pass the bread.

It’s truly amazing my stomach and tongue didn’t go on strike and leave me stranded. I even tried to find good places. I walked for seemingly miles among the west end looking for a new place that had good food. But over and over, i ended up on the short end of the fork.

I will say that my hotel’s breakfast bar had edible food. But when the culinary highlight of the day is medium strength coffee, toast, and Weetabix, you know something is going down the wrong way. It’s a good thing I was on a business trip. I kept the receipts for the expense report and they remind me of such lovely meals.

Day one: Canela – a Portuguese/Brazilian cafe.

This was an easy place, they are across the street from the hotel, it was late, I was hungry, I bit the bullet. Their vegetarian options were pretty sparse, so I got the vegetarian lasagna with salad and a plantain dessert thing. The lasagna wasn’t bad before it took a ride in the microwave express for 5 minutes. Throw some salad on this nuclear lunch and you’ve got a slab of pasta/cheese with broccoli, smothered with wilted salad and dressing. YUMMMY! Fortunately, this was filling enough for me to save the plantain thing for later, oh how lucky…

Day two: Yahoo! cafeteria and Sartaj Limited

The Yahoo! cafe had a lovely serving of pasta with veggies and tomato sauce. It wasn’t awful, just typically British and mediocre. I think this sums up a lot of the food I eat in London. It’s edible and mediocre. You forget what you ate 30 minutes later. Unless you end up burping the flavor every 30 minutes; like today’s unfortunate falafel wrap. *burp*

Dinner was at Sartaj Limited. The menu promised unique Balti food, a rare cuisine in India. I figured, what the heck. It couldn’t be bad. Everyone says you can get good indian food in London. Which is true. You can also get some horrible Indian food in London. Like the Hari Krishna cafe on the last trip where everything tasted like it was cooked in dish detergent. At least it was all you can eat.

But I digress, let’s savor the flavor of Sartaj. I asked the waiter what was so special about the cuisine and why were they the only ones to provide such a service outside of India? The answer: we serve it in the cooking dish, a small wok.

Stop the presses! I think we have a true culinary revolution! They serve the food in the food in the iron skillets that they cook in. Now that is novel! Have I ever had anything like that before? Oh yeah, every truckstop dive in America has their skillet eggs and potatoes. But those dives are not Sartaj!

So, I told the guy I would like the quintessential vegetarian Balti dish. Did I mention I was the only customer for about 40 minutes? I also ordered some variation of naan, raita, and water.

He asked if I liked it hot. I chuckled and said “does the pope shit in the woods?“. Of course I like it hot, I grew up on the Mexican border. Make me sweat, make my nose run, make me beg my momma for mercy, give it to me hot and hard,… ooh, maybe I’m giving away too much information…

The waiter gave me a single glass of water, about three gulps worth and left to chat with the other person working in the cafe. Remember, there are no other customers in sight. After a while, I get the fabled iron skillet of Balti legend. It’s a mixture of onions, peppers, and onions with a spicy broth. The raita is yogurt with a chopped cucumbers on top and the naan had some kind of greasy, pressed creature inside it.

Hold me back, I knew I was in for some dining pleasure with this.

I will say the food was spicy and i appreciated the snot dripping out of my nose and flavoring the dish. I had to mix in some raita to soothe my rapidly eroding tongue as the water lasted about three bites. The creature inside the naan started to look like Bambi and the waiter was nowhere to be seen.

I’m a bit of a silent sufferer. I’d rather sit in the chair and stew in a pool of self pity than get up and pour myself another glass of water or steal a napkin from one of the many empty tables for my waterfall of a snotty nose.

After the dish was finished, I started to cough, sniffle, and read my book until the waiter decided it was time to acknowledge me again. That’s ok, he was busy with the other customers, no wait, I was the only one.

This meal was edible, as spicy as I requested, and not the same ol’ same ol’. I’ll give it that. Besides, it wasn’t the worst thing I’d eaten that day. I walked around the area for a while and decided it was time to hit the hotel and finish that lovely plantain thing from the night before.

Let me start by describe this thing visually. Imagine a soft cake/pie with layers of plantains (a starchier, less sweet cousin of bananas). It reminded me of a gingerbread/plantain tart. How could such an exotic dish go so bad? I took one bite of this lovely piece of goodness and nearly broke a tooth on the top plantain, while my lower jaw made its way north through something best described as brown semi-solid goo. It had no flavor and reminded me of legos in mud. Yummy, give this one to Durward!

Day 3: Questo the Italian Buffet and Diana’s Diner

I grew up with buffets. I was the youngest of six kids and a night out for our family included a trip to the smorgasbord, where kids ate free. My mom always had healthy advice for us: “Skip the salads and head straight for the meats and desserts. Load up on the expensive stuff!”

I love buffets, from the good, the mediocre, and the bad. You’re gonna get crap, you pay too much, but oh what a selection! I remember people fighting over hamburger patties, cut in half, with a slice of cheese on them at Hometown buffet. That’s the spirit a buffet should inspire. Give me more dammit and don’t you dare take my fifth serving of canned peas!

So, I couldn’t pass up an Italian buffet with promises of pasta and pizza. I instantly thought of my friend, moo, who would join me at Shakeys for the pizza buffet. He would actually visit the vomitorium to get rid of the first batch so that he could continue going through the buffet lines another hour. It’s all about getting your $4.99′s worth of grub.

I walked into Questo and saw the enormous buffet after sitting down. It stretched from one end of the wall to another. Unfortunately, that wall was only 4 feet long. I ordered the buffet (approx. $12) and a Pepsi (approx. $4) and asked where the pizza was. “Oh, the pizza is extra, that’s not included) 16 bucks for four feet of buffet and a Pepsi.

How bad could this food be? I honestly was driven to sample everything to find out what was the worst thing I’ve ever eaten. It seemed like a challenge to find something with a satisfying texture or taste. The eggplant parmesan consisted of micro-waved eggplant with tomato sauce brushed on and two crumbs of mozzarella baking in a steam table, the pasta was decimated broccoli/cauliflower with white sauce and penne, there was a semi-solid polenta thing in ketchup, and dry basmati rice with a single stem of saffron waved over the pot during cooking. I was in hog’s heaven.

Just as I declared the polenta thing as the truly worst thing I’d eaten in 2 1/2 years, I noticed a customer going to another buffet bar in the back. Could it be? Am I lucky enough to try yet another treasure trove of culinary delight?

I grabbed my plate and headed for the promised land. I was amazed to see a salad buffet bar. But, do I go against my mother’s advice? Should I skip the salad and grab some ice cream from the freezer next to it? Nah, that’s not included. It’s another 4 bucks for a scoop. So, i marveled at the salads and started grabbing spoonfulls of pre-processed macaroni, egg, bean, etc salads.

The polenta remained on top as the worst dish. Frankly, it will take a truly hideous dish to knock that sucker off its throne. I only wish I had brought my camera to document the awards ceremony.

To top off this luxurious lunch, the cash register guy tacked on a mandatory tip and crossed out the “NOT” in the “SERVICE NOT INCLUDED” statement at the bottom of the receipt. They must have known I was cheap and would have left without some coin on the table. Don’t worry, you were not forgotten. :)

After the lunch, I was feeling a bit less than healthy. *falafel burp just happened* I wanted to tread lightly for dinner and settled on a tiny diner that looked like it belonged in a hippie movie. It was no-frill comfort food. I should have gone for a classic breakfast, but was tempted by a vegetarian risotto. How could this be bad?

I will say that the restaurant was pleasant, the people were nice, it was very affordable, and I did enjoy my meal for what it was worth. I got a salad and the risotto. It’s just a shame to call it risotto. It should have been called veggie stew and rice. They used long grain rice instead of the stubby, starchy stuff of risotto legend. So, I’m giving them a pass. The place was pleasant the food was perfectly mediocre, not over-priced, and didn’t leave me burping risotto for the next two days.

Day 4 Yahoo! catering and Browns bar and restaurant

I was in a big meeting day 4 and 5 and Yahoo brought in trays of snacks and sandwiches to quench our hunger. I hadn’t slept well the night before. It was probably the polenta getting its revenge. For some reason I was also hungry all day long and kept grabbing cookies, snacks, and coffee in the morning. By noon, I was ready for something with protein and tried the egg salad triangles and tomato-cheese finger thingies. Once again, perfectly mediocre and hardly satisfying. But it’s all good once you’ve eaten enough brownies, diet coke, and cookies.

Afterwards, the meeting participants went out for a real dinner. Some Browns restaurant. It was almost forgettable due to it’s perfectly edible food that actually had taste and texture. I actually licked the plate clean. No, really. I was that impressed. I picked up the plate and began licking it clean, first the front and then the back.

Day 5: More Yahoo! catering and attack of the killer falafel, scone and potential pizza.

The second day of the meeting also had an assortment of cookies, snacks, and tea sandwiches. I prepared for this spread by having a large breakfast at the hotel. I skipped the Weetabix and went for eggs, hash browns, and mushrooms. Yep, they eat mushrooms for breakfast in England, those silly chaps.

The catering was unremarkable and less than filling. So, I figured I would get something for the ride back to Paris. I should have gone to a decent sandwich shop by turning left at the office door. But no, I had to make a right and go towards Soho and the land of bad takeouts. I stopped at the first falafel place and ordered a sandwich to go. I spotted some pizza with corn as a topping and thought that would be good if I was absolutely desparate on the Chunnel and didn’t feel like eating my shoe.

I knew I was in trouble when he dropped a ball of falafel and it bounced off the floor and landed back in his hand. He promptly placed a few of these super bouncy balls in the microwave to heat up. Oh yes, this was going to be good. These were wrapped in a large pita with a shmear of hummus a tease of flavor and a hint of taste. I asked for the pizza to be left cold, no need to heat up this wonder.

Needless to say, the falafel was really awful. It wasn’t as bad as the polenta from earlier in the week, but truly bad. I’ve been burping this chickpea-garlic flavor for the past few hours. *falafel burp*

I was starting to thing twice about the pizza sitting in my luggage. Could I really be hungry enough to eat it? I’d better not chance it, so I bought a scone at Le Pain Quitodien. This restaurant is actually pretty good. It’s a chain of bakery/cafe’s. Leave it to me to buy the worst thing in the cafe. The scone was bad. It was flavorless and dry. Perhaps I’m jaded. I’ve been spoiled by the sublime scones at Rebecca’s in San Diego. But it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out today’s scone was a bomb.

So, now I sit on the train heading to Paris. I’ve got a piece of scary pizza in my luggage, I’m burping falafel from lunch, and writing about a week of truly bad food. I can’t wait until my next trip to London.

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