Dragging a short weekend trip out to three posts...
I just love markets. Or really, I just love food - and it always makes for good photo-taking subjects.
The last time I was in Seattle, I was 12, so I really didn't remember that much of it upon return. I did remember Pike Place Market - or, at least, that I'd bought a clay whistle/musical instrument thingy there, and was amused to find that there was still a stall there selling those clay whistles. But somehow, I thought there would be more food involved and fewer chintzy stalls. That didn't really stop us from eating our way through the market - oyster shooters? Why not? Freshly-made doughnuts? Don't mind if I do (especially because the guy there was sweet/corny [depending on your interpretation], and when I asked for a half-dozen of those fried bits of happiness, he told me, "For you, the sun, moon, and stars." Love it.). Cheese curds? Oh, we'll take a container and snack on them throughout the rest of the day, sneaking those squeaky bites in the middle of the museum.
But aren't vacations always about eating? That's what I thought, at least.
And though this didn't take place in Seattle, but rather back home over the weekend, I just had to include it. I was at a bar with a friend, and had purposefully programmed the wrong phone number into an idiot's Blackberry. It was my first time using a Blackberry, and if I could figure out how to enter phone numbers while definitely really drunk, he must've been really stupid. "Does your number start with 403?" he asked me, after I put in my defunct Providence number. "Oh, I didn't put in 401? Eh, 403 works too," I replied. Drunkards all around. AND THEN HE STARTED STROKING MY COAT, not my fur this time but rather a black trenchcoat draped over my arm.
I just do not understand it anymore.