Now I will go see if I can seduce a can of ravioli out of the sad Swedish guy in arctic hostel room 25. The circulation in my face is all fucked up by my time on the arctic mountainside and my NYE makeup is on point. I look like an extremely beautiful clown, one with really, really dirty hair. He’s a goner.
Dad says the produce in Berlin in June of 2006 was disappointing, that I should pack apples with me. This can’t be right. I remember how appalled I was at the available plant matter in Bergen in December… But wow we can’t grow much of anything here in New York City in late December, either, but we have access to much more than garlic and potatoes. Is it just that Bergen can’t support the import? There is not adequate market? Perhaps. That’s the self-reinforcing cycle of culture, I guess.
