There are many things I will miss about being in large foreign cities. Spending my last week of this very long trip in Paris is reaffirming some of these things I will dream of when I’m gone. The things I’ll miss aren’t the classic romantic bits, I can find fresh bread in the morning any old time, couples will kiss under magnificent arches in postcards for eternity, and I am happy with them staying there. It’s the chaos and despair so irreplaceably entwined with these dirty concrete jungles, from which hope and innocence bloom, that I will carry in my mind across the ocean. We went to Republique in the middle of a protest and found an equal amount of laughter and tears. Standing on ground covered in wax, people gathered to rise against the temporary law brought in banning large public gatherings in the wake of the attacks. Initially walking into the mass of people I didn’t know the reason for their action. Leaving the square for a nearby alley I chatted up a policeman in riot gear eating a mandarin orange who explained the situation. Behind him roughly 15 police vans with more riot gear clad bobbers sat parked along the street. They were there because protesting is illegal, but they weren’t doing anything about it because, as my friend the cop explained, it’s not really that illegal. Walking home through the alley we peered in the windows of the riot vans to see cops eating baguettes, microwave dinners, and apples. The kebab shops had lines of riot police out the door, all eagerly waiting to order their dinner. In the midst of international tragedy, government oppression, police compliance, and protests for freedom, everybody has to stop for dinner sometime, no matter what. This is an important lesson Europe has taught me.
Another one of these bittersweet instances happened to me on the train coming home around 11:30pm after a rather stressful dinner. The train doors were closing as a group of five or six ran to catch the ride, a man sitting in the corner held the closing doors open for them with his hands. The group squeezed in and said a vague thank you to the wrong person. The man who held the door sat back down in the corner, with his hood pulled low over his eyes, and his head in his hands. A couple stops in I realized he was crying. I sat on my suitcase in front of him and flashed a little smile, he gave a little smile back. That was all. I spent the rest of the trainride below everybody on my suitcase, with my forehead pressed to the glass watching the graffiti covered halls whip by. The cruelness of a big city provides a sort of safety. A safety where you can cry on the subway and know the worst case scenario is some deranged Canadian girl will smile at you with delusions of grandeur.
I have certainly never seen anybody cry on public transit in Canada. This is because if you were caught with tears coming down your cheeks in Vancouver, nobody would have the good sense to leave you alone. They, like me, would try to save you. Sometimes you don’t need anybody to save you, you just need to cry on the way home, and leave it at that.
I will miss people on mopeds with death wishes. I will miss strangers who give bad directions. I will miss people who speak perfectly good english pretending they don’t out of spite. I will miss the extravagant amount of cheese shops. I will miss the dramatic hand movements. I will miss getting used to a new bed over and over again.
On the other hand, I do miss my own bed, to which I will be returning very soon. Goodbyes are the kind of thing I thrive off of in the worst way. It’s sad that something's ending, but it presents a great new beginning. Still, I have not figured out which one I like better. An indecisiveness that’s proving to be very problematic. I have six more days to decide if I’m itching to leave or longing to stay. I’m sure you’ll hear the verdict, with all its indulgent drama, just as soon as it comes to me.
On my way into Copenhagen I was stopped by security for trying to smuggle an over 100ml bottle of mint and witch hazel toner on to the plane. After combing through my liquids and throwing out the cremes that could be mistaken for weapons of mass destruction, I was asked to step out of the line to chat with two German police women. Holding large machine guns and looking very serious me and the police women piled into a corner to have a chat. Here, they informed me the further questioning was not large-quantity-of-facial-toner related. “Woman to woman, you have a giant hole in the ass of your pants, and everyone can see your underwear,” one of the women holding a massive weapon informed me. My hands moved to the back of my pants, which were indeed split in half. I was released from custody, and quickly went to the washroom to put on a new pair of jeans.
No matter how many layers of expensive wool I cover myself in, no matter how much or little eye makeup I wear, no matter how many important books I read, I will always be the biggest goof in the room. In a continent chalked full of glamour, I am learning to face this fact more and more everyday. It’s a hilarious reality, and I feel ok about it.
In Copenhagen I drank mulled wine underneath christmas lights for three days. It was too cold to take pictures and too cold to go to museums. On the second day we biked home in a snowstorm, my purse stuffed with smoked salmon, and didn’t leave the house much after that.
We ate a different configurations of rye for each and every meal, by the end I forgot what it was like to have feeling in my fingers, and I wasn’t upset by it.
In Copenhagen, when you ask for directions people will walk you to exactly where you want to go just to ensure you get there. Strangers invite you for tea at their homes when you have luggage and look distressed in the street. Green grocers offer up their life stories in casual conversation while selling you bundles of mint leaves. All this is to say, there’s an unusual kindness in the air. In a place where the soil is buried under layers of ice and snow, somehow flowers still grow.
My first night in Barcelona started with fried goat cheese, and ended in a karaoke bar. Though convincing a British man to sing Estelle’s “American Boy” was a highlight, everything before it seems like a shitty dream after experiencing Gaudi’s unfinished church “Sagrada Familia.” Every person I met warned me of its beauty, I wrote them off expecting to be underwhelmed. As the story always goes, I was wrong, I fell in love immediately.
At 3pm, the light shines through the amber stained glass and makes reflections like fire on the ceiling. In the crypt mothers cry as their babies are christened while wearing elaborate bows in their hair. 300 steps up the tower lands you high above the city, here you feel afraid of falling, and unfazed by everything else.
I asked a priest of the church to bless a rosary for my Grandmother. After doing so he kissed my forehead and looked me in the eyes for five minutes without saying anything. “May you walk in peace” he finally said with a smile, before laughing until I laughed, and walking away.
There are not many things on earth so effective at bringing people together. There is an energy to the Sagrada Familia that crosses boundaries, its design is so overwhelmingly stunning in a digestible and human way that’s scarcely found. Catholics, atheists, Spanish citizens, Japanese tourists, women wearing hijabs, men wearing turbans, the fat, the thin, the young, the old, the privileged, all chatted to each other with great excitement. We talked about the fiery 3 o’clock light, we talked about the unlikeliness of it all, we forgot to ask each other our places of origin.
Here on a pull out bed in Berlin, I feel like a little part of myself is still there, observing the curves of the walls and the feeling of invincibility provided by all holy places.
I’m coming hot and fresh off an almost week long stay in the city of Retamar. Retamar is a little beach suburb, somewhere between the Cabo de Gata Natural park and Almeria. Here we stayed in a very cheap Airbnb with a pool and a roof reachable by ladder. On this roof I enjoyed many cups of Yogi Digestive Tea while I stared at the natural reserve, and contemplated things I have no control over, like my future and the fate of my toenails. My toes were on my mind as the weather required sandals, and not long into our stay I realized I forgot to pack clippers.
With my claws exposed I spent my week in Retamar trekking around the natural park, almost never with the right footwear, or an adequate amount of food and water. With the mediterranean sea inches away, the pressure to relax and experience an Instagram perfect beach vacay was at an all time high. Though we never actually made it to tanning on the beach, we did eat a lot of fish, so I left feeling salty enough. Eating seafood outside of North America almost always means seeing the face of the little critter you’re consuming. In some cases it actually means being brought a couple options in their raw glory slapped on a platter for your perusal. In these situations it’s best to pick the happiest looking fish, and 15 minutes later when it comes to you fried and served with a wedge of lemon, try to avoid eye contact.
Seeing a new ocean, walking through the desert, and meeting mountain goats in the wild were all valuable awe inspiring experiences. But I must say the highlight of my Retamar days was our Airbnb host Jose. Jose speaks English, Spanish, Arabic, German, and French. If you mention a country, he’s lived there. He once was a stunt double for one of the Monty Pythons in “The Adventures of Baron Munchausen.” Once every year Jose does the master cleanse, fasting on lemon juice and cayenne pepper for 10 days. He prefers fish to meat, avoids flour, and always eats a light dinner. Jose showed us the sights of Retamar and surrounding neighbourhoods. He encouraged me to eat my first churro, which I dipped in coffee with Soya Milk and felt a bit conflicted about.
Years back Jose was in a very serious car accident, he has required 25 surgeries since the crash. He’s a nervous guy, and when he gets scared his adrenaline levels shoot through the roof. This means that even with the maximum amount of anesthetics, every time without fail he wakes up during surgery and is subject to the emotional and physical pain accompanied by that. The day before we left Jose came back from the hospital with some bad news. The doctors found some large tumours in his neck, and he was put on the waiting list for another surgery to remove them. Tired from years of physical pain, Jose lightly cried in my mother’s arms next to the pool. Not blubbering tears, but middle age man tears, so repressed they were barely there.
Jose’s dream is to move to a cabin in the mountains of rural Germany to live out his life with his four cats in peace.
We recommended herbal remedies, juice cleanses, crystal therapy, and every other alternative option under the sun. We told him it was possible to recover. I believe it is. I hope this wasn’t just the right thing to say, but a statement that will prove itself to be true.
As seems to be a reoccurring theme on this trip, I discover more and more every stop how unimportant places are. It’s not the cathedrals, patatas bravas, or open ocean I’ll remember. It’s Jose, his cats, and the swarthy waitress at his favourite local cafe who always jokes about his gradual weight gain.
If you had told me a month and a bit ago that it was possible for me while sitting in a sacred ornate cathedral in Seville Spain to feel homesick, I would have called you crazy. Yet over the past couple weeks I have found myself summiting alpine peaks with my mind consumed with longing for Canadian fauna, I have found myself at tapas bars with hocks of ham hanging from the ceiling missing the juice cleanse advertisements of home, I have chatted with Parisian writers and hoped against hope at some point in the conversation they would apologize for absolutely no reason, like the people I love across the ocean. I have broadened my vocabulary for different kinds of goat and sheep cheeses, I have had lunch with strangers, I have touched walls carved and erected in the 16th century. None of these experiences have instilled the sense of escapism in me I expected. I have no desire to commit visa fraud and live out my days in a yurt in the Sierra Nevada. I have realized even if the grass is better looking, has more delicious food, and grand monuments of human achievement around every corner, it doesn’t necessarily mean that it’s greener. Here, on a train pillaging through the Spanish desert, it’s occurring to me that these might all be signs I am growing up. No amount of berets or medieval paintings can outshine the people you love and the work that drives you. Whether I’m writing in a trailer in rural Alberta or putting pen to paper underneath a pomegranate tree in an ancient Islamic palace, as long as I’m committing the act with the right people on my mind, I will feel at home.
Woof. Now that the paragraph long emotional tirade has come to an end, I can quickly summarize where I’ve been since we last spoke in Paris.
Took the train from Paris to the French Alps. Stayed for five days, ate pate everyday, went for a run and mistook the effects of low-oxygen mountain air for cardiac arrest. Felt at home surrounded by mountains.
Carpooled with a stranger named Olivier to the south of France. Spent three hours at a farmer’s market and threw down $50 on cheese. Ate the aforementioned cheese with our AirBNB host Fred on a terrace while listening to jazz.
Carpooled with a stranger named Lauren to a different part in the south. Regretted eating $50 worth of cheese before getting in the poor girl’s car. Went to visit friends on a Plateau and was almost brought to tears when they offered me pumpkin soup and wild thyme tea. Felt like home surrounded by hot drinks and vegetables.
Went to another market 20 minutes away from the plateau. Kept a tight wallet after the previous day’s cheese fiasco. Bided time having coffee and olives with a familiar face, the manager of a sports store, a journalist, and a British man. Back on the plateau I had my face licked by horses whose pen I ran around in wearing open toed sandals. I flew to Spain, feeling grateful for my toes.
Went to a variety of large ornate cathedrals in Seville. I sat in a pew listening to a recording of Frank O’Hara’s “Having a Coke with You” and cried. As O’Hara spoke of people he loves more than statuary I gazed upon the plasticine martyrs and saints that surrounded me and thought as hard as I could about the people I love. Then I realized crying to poetry in a church is not the kind of behaviour one can exhibit if they’re trying to avoid being a total asshole. I then ate steamed spinach at a 300 year old tapas restaurant and tried to make more sarcastic comments than usual to make up for it.
Took the train to Granada. In Granada we walked up the mountain to see the famous Islamic palace Alhambra. It was closed.
Alhambra part two, 16th century moorish royalty slayed the game as far as extravagant palaces go. Poor Versailles, I imagine the French are probably pretty pissed about the whole situation. Went to a vegan restaurant for dinner and loaded up on nut milk for the road. In the next two bars we visited I met three people who fluently spoke english. Two from England, one from America. In conversation I realized I was slowly forgetting how I used to speak. I over explained, used weird grammar, and lots of hand motions. It turns out it only takes a couple weeks to forget what it feels like to speak with someone who really understands you.
Four Days in Paris
At the airport in Paris I pushed my way through throngs of young clear skinned couples kissing passionately, struggled to inhale air thick with the scent of goods baking, and triumphed over a deep sense of shame towards my Patagonia backpack in the face of many Louis Vuitton rollies. We arrived at our Airbnb around 10:30am, climbed four flights of stairs, and washed our faces to be deemed acceptable in the city of romance. Below is a summary of my four days in this town, the subjects range from rumination on Duck Confit to my first experience with public hate crimes to stories of vengeful lovers. I write to you with my stomach full of figs, lentil crackers, and goat brie. My heart is full of French pride and culture. I do not wish to reveal what my colon is full of.
For a fragile sack of meat who had not slept for 24 hours, on Wednesday morning when I arrived in Paris, I was in pretty good shape. Our first move in cultural assimilation was to stop for a pre fix lunch at a local Brasserie. Sitting beneath a heat lamp on a wicker chair we smeared rabbit pate on pickles and drank wine with lots of sediment at the bottom. My “Plat De Jour” was duck confit with salad and mashed potatoes. Biting into the crispy skin of that duck leg, with butter dripping down my chin and bones between my molars I experienced for the first time what it truly is to be a woman. At least a Parisian woman. Eating Duck Confit on that particular afternoon brought out in me some of the most important French values ever uttered: liberty, equality, fraternity. Unfortunately for the rest of my day, mashed potatoes and butter soaked meat can really highlight the jet lag in you. Waiting for the bill after my meal I fell asleep sitting up. None of the day’s subsequent events compared to my divine lunch, but I will recount them for posterity.
Duck Confit > Pompidou Museum
Duck Confit > Walking the Seine
Duck Confit > Watching a man in leather pants dramatically cut hair in the street for donations
In the morning we ventured out on the Metro to find the photography museum. We ended up getting lost and finding ourselves in the jewish district, overjoyed to traverse the neighbourhood with the smell of Challah guiding our paths. Walking past the holocaust memorial I came face to face with a machine gun for the first time in my life. Outside the monument two policemen and four members of the French army stood fully armed in front of the museum. We would continue to see these men and women with machine guns slung over their shoulders throughout our trip. Almost always they were guarding a monument or piece of art that had recently been defaced with anti-Semitic remarks. I don’t mean to play the nice-Canadian card, but having been raised in a place devoid, in my experience, of mass-scale hate crimes, I was pretty disturbed to witness the scene. We asked for directions from one of the men, who referred us to another english speaking one, on their recommendation we turned left, far from life’s harsh realities and back into the delusional world of tourism. I stopped for a falafel, we toured the museum of photography, and used the wifi in a nearby cafe.
Thursday was gallery night in Paris, so we hopped from show opening to show opening, drinking free white wine from fancy little cups. The characters who appeared at gallery night readily embraced art-world stereotypes. Chanel red lips chattered away in French about the relationship between the pieces on display and the pharmaceutical industry, everybody wore bright bold intellectual glasses, people kissed each other on the cheeks with little enthusiasm. Hours of staring at critics wearing real fur can really make you hungry, so we ventured back into the rain in search of a snack. We set our sights on the first restaurant along our path, which was surrounded by a crowd of other hungry gallery-goers. It looked warm and cozy, we chatted with a man outside while waiting for a table who told us the blood pudding was not to be missed. Unfortunately when our turn came we were not allowed inside because we aren’t French. Back outside in the rain we explained the situation to our blood-sausage-loving companion, wishing him a premature farewell. He told us to wait a moment, extinguished his cigarette, and had us a table before I could lose even a bit of my faith in France. We ate blood sausage and talked about life with the sisters sitting next to us at the bar. Our waiter was a writer coming off a double shift, she was tired but her book was coming out the next day, and that kept her going. The book is about her deceased mother, and the notes of advice she left her. The publication meant she could quit her job in a month to focus on writing. She let me look at the advanced copy before her shift was over, it was white with a child’s drawing of someone under the sun. Of all I had seen at Paris gallery night, that book was the piece of art I will remember most.
The restaurant closed and everybody crowded downstairs. The man who got us a table led this procession, and our mates at the bar explained he’s the owner. A bottle of champagne was opened, the owner sat at the bar chain smoking cigarettes and began playing songs on his phone. Everybody in the basement had to guess the song’s artist, sing along, or dance to earn points. The winner gets a little button. People danced on tables, I correctly identified an Annie Lennox tune, we took a taxi home at 3:00am.
I ate my first croissant in four years. At a bakery whose name translates to ‘The Bread and Ideas’, sitting on the wooden bench outside I spent 30 minutes going at that thing. I found new meaning for life in each crispy golden layer.
I saw the Mona Lisa after eating the croissant, which was a huge mistake. Compared to that croissant, the Mona Lisa looked like a first year art school student’s passion project. I left the Louvre wishing DaVinci had worked with butter.
The croissant was my greatest love and my greatest enemy. By dinner time my stomach was empty and in knots. Unable to find a single restaurant near us not completely centred around dairy or wheat, we slipped into a little wine bar as a last resort. I looked at the menu, crowded with bread, cheese, and pate, then politely excused myself to cry in the bathroom because I missed vegetables and buckwheat flour.
The salmon on toast was delicious, sprinkled with lemon, on a bed of chunky butter, I munched away while ruminating on my privilege and emotional connection to kale. Like Cinderella’s fairy godmother transforming her pumpkin to a carriage, at one point in the dinner, the restaurant cleared out and the barman started singing. Everybody was given rose with ice in it, and the customers joined in the chorus. Towards the end of the evening a woman parked her car outside the restaurant, stormed in and threw a bottle of champagne on her ex-husband. His new lover borrowed four cigarettes and took her outside to hash things out. She was a beautiful young girl in a fur coat who works in finance, when I asked her she told me she loves her life.
We took the train to Versailles, I ate salad and hummus for breakfast, so things were looking up. I think if World Vision posted up donation recruiters outside the Palace of Versailles, they might be able to solve global starvation. The guilt that roaming the massive and ornate campus instills in one is overwhelming, In Versailles a hand chiseled statue of one deity or another adorns every crevice. In some countries clean water is a crazy dream. The scale of the place makes these comparisons difficult to ignore.
Walking through the gardens was the second time I saw evidence of racial tension in Paris. In the middle of the greenery is a large sculpture by artist Anish Kapoor titled “The Dirty Corner.” For the second time since it’s installation at Versailles, it was vandalized with anti-Semitic remarks. Spray painted in white over the statue and surround rocks were words of hate and discrimination. It was the artist’s wish to leave these messages up to expose people to the vulgarity of racism, but due to their inappropriate content Versailles said no. Instead the artist painted over them partially in gold. Shimmering in the fall sun, the cover up functioned as a beautiful disguise for an ugly act.
After Versailles, we visited the Eiffel Tower and surrounding areas. Pedlars sold Selfie Sticks on the streets, couples took pictures of each other, and not many people looked up from their screens. I can confirm the tower looks just as it does in the movies. It is a metal triangle, it is very tall, pretty dope.
Behind the tower was a glass peace monument surrounded by more members of the French army. Someone had smashed the glass panels of the monument. Beyond the gates of this little disaster tourists continued to take pictures of themselves at angles that made it appear as if they were holding the tower behind them, a woman in a wedding dress kissed a man in a suit, the moon rose over the city of butter, political unrest, love, made in China artifacts, first time travellers, and striped shirt wearers.
I was not smart enough to take down the name of each piece. Nobody should have let me into a museum with a camera, I am a dangerous douchebag with a website.
I was not smart enough to take down the name of each piece. Nobody should have let me into a museum with a camera, I am a dangerous douchebag with a website.
I write to you under the fluorescent light of a hotel bathroom at 1:29 in the morning. I arrived in New York last night, and heard honking for the first time. A man in a suit and Nike Rosh Runs rescued me and my mother, Anne Marie, from a taxi line and rushed us to the back seat of a private car service. Our driver, Jose, moved here from Ecuador 20 years ago. He drove us to the T Mobile store across the street from his Queens apartment so we could buy Sim Cards for our phones, I waited for him while Anne Marie ran inside. Not long into our wait he left the vehicle to get soft serve ice cream from a truck idling behind us, in his absence a man outside a bargain clothing store made the eyes at me, it all felt very innocent and right. We arrived at our AIRBNB in Crown Heights at 7:30pm. A police van sat flashing outside the apartment. We learned the van sits there 24 hours a day, and has since a gun was fired a couple blocks away, we are assured no one was hit. I fall asleep at 8:00pm with a migraine, to the sound of our hosts coughing and making dumplings from a recipe they found on the internet. This brings us to today, I awoke at 8:00am, Anne Marie and I both had resolutions to find new accommodations. We’ll talk about all the good and bad this impulsive resolution brought us later. Before we made any crazy acts, we got lost on the train, walked to the MoMA, and ate chicken shawarmas on the way.
At the MoMA we met our friend, Kay, and her toddler, the three of us nibbled on battered seafood bits, while our 2 ½ year old friend ate apple slices and yogurt with just the same conviction. We took pictures of all the things you’re supposed to, stood among the throngs in front of Picasso’s sculptures, and squealed with excitement. Towards the end of the visit I took a shit in the bathroom, within the walls of the museum it felt oddly symbolic, artistic even.
After the MoMA we took refuge in a hotel lobby lounge, where we ate pretzels and huddled over our devices scouring the web for a better place to rest our heads. We were not savvy enough to cope with the flu-ridden roommates or the long journey to the subway. It’s important to admit defeat, even if the situation riddles you with anxiety. On the phone with AIRBNB we explained our situation, and they were immediately on the same page offering us an overnight hotel stay. So thankfully was our apartment host, and we were granted a reimbursement. All we had to do was get our bags from the old place to the new place. We set foot on the train with google maps and no directional sense. 40 minutes later we were in the Prospect Park neighbourhood, an hour away from where we needed to be. Iphone battery was low, stakes were high. We ducked into a bookstore to get our bearings and purchase a small gift for the aforementioned toddler. In casual conversation we explained our situation, with all the painstaking details I’ve left out here, to the cashier, a long time New Yorker named Nick. The book merchant wrapped our bedtime story purchase in brown paper with a red bow before calling us an Uber. As we clammered into the car, Nick ran after us and explained as we closed the door that he had pre-paid the cab for us, tip included. We sat dumbfounded on the way to our bags, human kindness was overflowing in New York City today. Our Uber driver, whose name I didn’t catch, was from Pakistan, he’s been here for 10 years. He lives in a $2,000 a month apartment in a nice Brooklyn neighbourhood, has been a full time driver for 2 years, and he smiled the whole ride there. When we tell him we’re from Vancouver, he says he heard about our city from a documentary on safe injection sites. He wants to know if Canada is better than America, he says he has two cousins living in Ontario.
When the Uber leaves, Kay arrives in a red four door. We rush our bags into the car as the police van outside shoos us away with aggressive hand motions. We drive across the bridge to our new place, the Empire State building looks insignificant from this angle. The hotel employee who greets us says he likes the choker necklace I am wearing, and laments the inaccessible nature of male chokers. I let another great business idea fly over my head as he hands us our room keys. Down the street we go to a Mexican restaurant, the fancy kind with edison lightbulbs. When all the guacamole had been scraped clean, the waiter stopped to clear our plates, and stayed a while to chat. He just graduated a Media and Public Relations program at Newcastle University, and is using this job to keep him afloat until something in his profession of choice comes up. He lives in Astoria and recommends we visit the Film Museum. Going forward he’s thinking of taking some classes at NYU pertaining to Magazine Management. He prefers American television to British television, and British writing to American writing. I gave him my card, he could be reading this right now.
On our walk home through the East Village, we pass a stumbling couple linked at the arm. “I don’t think I’m that fat!” the woman says to her lover, “Well, I’m just saying…,” the man replies.
I remember earlier on when human kindness was overflowing, return to the hotel, shut the bathroom door, open my laptop, and write about it.
Day 1 was all about salt, crunch, and starvation. Here's what I ate...
50 calorie packet pretzels, Krispy Kernels brand x2
70 calorie flax and corn chips, Krispy Kernels brand x1
Half of a 70 calorie packet of chocolate cookies, Wafer Master brand x1
Half a 100 calorie pack of hummus and lentil chips, discarded when I realized they were expired x1
bite of a turkey and brie sandwich, with the bread removed x1
cup of ginger ale x 1
peppermint tea x1
Half a bottle of multi-green kombucha x1
Day 2 was all about suits, geometric shapes, and battered seafood. Here's what I ate...
Tuna sliders x3
Fried oysters x5
Crab fritters with avocado puree x6
Glass of water poured from a $300 dollar aerodynamic water jug x3
Asking for soy milk at the MOMA restaurant, priceless.