The trip was off to an excellent start with the continuation of my favorite Madrid airport tradition. (Favorite tradition, not favorite airport. Madrid-Barajas is a soulless warehouse of an airport, with vast, fluorescent-lit hallways and overpriced amenities, cunningly designed to rob travelers of all hope and vigor.)¹ Anyway, my tradition is this: cheese salad. While I adore living in Morocco, and there are great things to be said about Moroccan cuisine, one of the realities of life here is that it is nearly impossible to get a decent western-style salad. You know, a salad that is made of lettuce. Salads here tend to be an odd platter of diced potato, beets, rice, tomatoes, and onions. Don’t get me wrong- potato, beets, rice, tomatoes, and onions are all things that I love. But sometimes I miss a nice, normal lettuce/tomato/carrot/cucumber/onion/vinaigrette salad. So the first thing I do after passing through security in Madrid is sit down with a beautiful, cheese and pear-topped green salad. This salad even includes cheddar, a rarity in Morocco, and on the way through the checkout line you can pick up these teeny little single-serve containers of olive oil and vinegar. Mmmm.

I digress. After landing in the tiny Bergamo airport, I made my way to the two euro bus into town, and received my first lesson about Italy. Although officially the bus is supposed to arrive every fifteen minutes, unofficially it arrives just after you’ve given up hope of ever being warm again. I live in Morocco, however, so I didn’t sweat it.² The guy standing next to me forlornly at the bus stop struck up a conversation and–after I found out that he was in Bergamo for an interview with a power company–we talked about solar/wind/water energy all the way into town. After parting ways at the train station, I had a frigid nighttime adventure finding my friend, Ilaria’s, apartment. Soon, though, I was snuggled into bed and ready for my very first day in Italy.

After a leisurely breakfast with Ilaria, who was a delightful hostess,³ I ventured out into the city. Bergamo is divided into two parts, the lower city (Città bassa) and the upper city (Città alta). Left over from bygone centuries when high ground was strategically crucial, Bergamo’s high city sits atop a hill (backed by the gorgeous foothills of the Alps) and is encircled by a high wall. I walked through what I guess could be classified as the high street of the lower city, with fashion outlets, pharmacies, bars, and shopping centers, then turned onto a side street and climbed up, up, up to the enormous, ostentatious gate of the Città alta. Caught between Milan and Venice, Bergamo was historically controlled by Venice. And if there’s anything Venetians like, it’s showing off. So in the 17th century, those Venetians marched into Bergamo, knocked down a bunch of homes along the edge of the city, and built a big wall and fancy gate in their place. Kind of a homewrecking, extravagant “suck it!” to the Milanese.

Do you think the Venetians were overcompensating for something?

Anyway, after a stroll on the magnificent wall built on the crumbled remains of Bergamaschi⁴ citizens’ homes, I began a tour of the bakeries of Bergamo’s upper city. But seriously, guys, there were a lot of bakeries. The kind of bakeries that make you stand outside the window, mouth hanging open, pondering exactly how many of those sumptuous sweets you could cram into your mouth at one time without drawing a crowd of incredulous onlookers.

I spent the next thirty minutes inside the famous Santa Maria Maggiore basilica, marveling at its intricate carving and beautiful tapestries. Even the iron railings surrounding the outside of the church were beautifully ornate; no two were alike and were oxidized just enough to lend a pretty teal tinge to the edges of the ironwork.

Every single one was different.

Details in the basilica.

More of the inside.

I made it a personal mission to traverse every single street in the Città alta and didn’t stop until my path was blocked by a throng of extremely loud and elated schoolchildren. I looked up and immediately saw the reason for their frivolity: an old-fashioned candy shop.

Seconds after this photo was taken, these two boys orchestrated a major heist at gunpoint and made off with several canvas sacks of gummy worms.

Hoping to escape the children, I ducked into the Museo Civico di Scienze Naturali. Turns out that they let kids inside natural history museums, too, but I wasn’t especially bothered because there were some excellent stuffed puffer fish and upset-looking crocodiles on display. I had just completed a thorough inspection of the museums preserved fauna and moved on to the African art room⁵ when the museum closed for lunch. For hours. Look, the Italians are clearly doing things right.

ATTENTION: SHARP TEETH (They should tape this sign to live sharks, too.)

These stuffed eagles reminded me of two old friends having a chat.

Luckily, we all escaped before the allo-sawr-us.

Given that every single museum employee and raucous schoolchild had departed for lunch and the city had become deathly silent, I decided that I should do the same. I browsed windows and menus, trying to find exactly the right location for my first Italian meal. (I briefly considered an Irish pub, then remembered myself.) Settled on a pretty little outdoor café, with purple tablecloths and handwritten menus. When the waitress asked me if I’d like anything to drink, I had a “Well, why the hell not– I’m in Italy!” moment and ordered a glass of local red wine. (Having practiced my Italian the whole airplane ride from Madrid, I immediately resorted to French.) And my inner five-year-old squealed delightedly when I settled on good, old-fashioned spaghetti.⁶ So I sat at this sunny café, wine in one hand and spaghetti-filled fork in the other, and spent some time thinking about exactly how awesome my life was.

I gave into temptation and purchased a scrumptious fruit tart from one of the nearby bakeries for dessert. Carrying it to the city wall, I gingerly set it down and singlemindedly began snapping photos of it, trying to make sure I adequately captured the glowing red berries, sparkling kiwi, and tantalizing crumbly crust. After several minutes of this, I sat down on the wall and, lifting the tart to my lips, looked up. An elderly gentleman was standing right there, grinning at me. He laughed, slapped me on the back, and said something in Italian that I’m pretty sure meant “My, you are so silly taking photos of that tart when you should be eating it! Kids these days! Ho ho. Thanks for giving me the best laugh of the day.” And then walked away. Let the record show that this tart was totally worth it.

My delayed-gratification tartograph.

The ever-helpful Wikitravel had recommended seeing San Vigilio, a small village on the hill above Bergamo’s Città alta. That’s right, a Città alta alta. What Wikitravel said: “Visit San Vigilio – a small hilltop village that can be reached on foot or by a second funicolare from Città Alta.” What I read: “Visit San Vigilio – a small hilltop village that can be reached on foot or by a second funicolare from Città Alta. If you cop out and take the funicolare, however, you are possibly the laziest person on Earth and people will stare and point in the streets, knowing that you are an American tourist.” So I walked. And walked. And then do you know what I did? I walked some more.

Passed at least five of these on the way up.

After many minutes and several passing funicolares⁷ filled with townsfolk, I reached San Vigilio and discovered that the village was composed of exactly three things: 1) the funicolare station, 2) the overpriced café outside the funicolare station, and 3) an old, ruined castle. So castle it was! The castle park⁸ appeared completely deserted, and I felt just slightly creeped out as I climbed up winding stone staircases with little shafts of light peeking in from medieval window slits. There weren’t even any signs, so I just continued up and hoped that I wouldn’t end up in some sort of medieval torture chamber populated by cloaked members of a fanatical religious cult. But there was light at the end of the staircase, and I was greeted with a breathtaking view of the surrounding countryside and mountains from the castle’s battlements.

Creepy?

This man looked like he had a story.

The Città alta from above.

Spent the rest of the afternoon completing my mental map of the city and befriending one very large dog. Home again in the evening for a cooking adventure with Ilaria: homemade lasagne with béchamel sauce, fresh pesto, and parmesan. To be honest, I mostly watched while Ilaria worked her northern Italian kitchen magic, though I made some significant contributions by a) holding plates, b) stirring sauce, and c) cracking really dumb jokes every few minutes. Her husband came home just in time to eat lasagne (well played, sir) and we chatted over dinner about everyone’s grand travel plans, past and future.

The Very Large Dog. Seriously, he was nearly bigger than me.

It rained on day two, so there was only one thing to do: visit the public library. After taking one look at the decor, I was keenly aware of the fact that this was a shushing library. You know what I mean- full of bespectacled librarians that go shushhh when you try to take a photo of the stacks or shussshhh when you ask a student what she is studying or shuuuussssshhhh when you step on a floorboard the wrong way and it creaks. I felt like I should get a free noise pass, being a librarian myself, but I wasn’t sure how to explain this concept in Italian so I kept quiet instead. Still, I wish that there were some sort of international camaraderie between librarians that guaranteed entrance to secret ancient book rooms and invitations for cakes and tea.

I was about to leave the library when I stumbled across the card catalog room. A whole wall of card catalogs, most of them hand-written decades ago… how could I resist? Knowing that I lacked the language skills to pull the librarian card,⁹ I pulled the photographer card and managed to communicate my desire to take a few photos of the card catalog. The librarian sighed, but reluctantly agreed.¹⁰ Like the literature nerd that I am, I pulled all of my favorite authors and snapped photos of the ones with the most elegant handwriting. The librarian looked on suspiciously.

La Torre, apparently.

Easy to find.

The rain was bumming me out, so I slipped into a café/bar where I’d seen some university students go the day before. The bartender seemed really excited about serving me coffee or liquor, so I ordered a hot chocolate. And oh, what a hot chocolate it was! Listen, friends. This was not your Swiss Miss, Land o’ Lakes, Starbucks, or even [insert famed local coffee house here] hot chocolate. This was, literally, hot chocolate. Chocolate that was hot. It was like someone had simply melted a chocolate bar into a cup and handed it to me. It was heavenly. I may have made some inappropriate hot chocolate-enjoying noises, because the bartender came over to have a half-hour long chat in broken French about Italy, Bergamo, history, and architecture. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I only loved him for his hot chocolate.

I met Ilaria for a delicious afternoon snack that was like a cross between foccacia and pizza, topped with fresh sliced tomato, oregano, and heaps of garlic. One euro.

Even more delicious than it looks.

We nibbled our magic portable pizza and strolled through the just-opened botanical gardens (Orto Botanico di Bergamo “Lorenzo Rota”). I spotted several choice succulents that had just been brought out of the greenhouse by a slightly grumpy gardener. He eyed me suspiciously when I got too close to the sempervivum. As the sun set, we began our walk back down to the Città bassa, rewarding ourselves at the end of the journey with gelato in ice cream cones. I caught the train to Milan, had a late-night public transit nightmare, and attended the two-day conference. I caught a fleeting glimpse of Milan from a bus window on my way back to the airport, and a lingering glimpse of the Alps from my airplane window. I spent the rest of my journey to Tangier (including my second airport salad) thinking about visiting Italy again.¹¹

1. If you do find yourself there, however, try one of the apples. It is the only apple I have encountered in my life that actually tastes like a place: airport. Skeptical? See for yourself.
2. It was cold.
3. And not just because she fed me.
4. Yes, Wikipedia confirms that this is the correct demonym.
5. The irony of flying from Africa to Italy to look at African art was not lost on me.
6. Oh, the stories my parents could tell you about me and spaghetti.
7. Funicular, a quaint urban rail car that carries lazy people up hills: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Funicular
8. You know, where visiting lords and kings park their castles. Ha ha.
9. Please note the appropriateness of this expression, given the circumstances.
10. She did indicate, however, that video was forbidden. Who takes video of card catalogs, anyway? It’s not like they’re going to leap up, do some parlor tricks, or emit flashing lights.
11. That and the two kilos of parmesan nestled safely in my hand luggage.

Later in the day, one of the more difficult kindergarten classes came in for their story. When it was time for them to leave the library, I tried playing the mandolin as they lined up. Worked like a charm. Twenty-four of the rowdiest children at our school quietly faced forward, lined up, and walked back to class. Admittedly, a couple of them nearly walked into doors because they were craning around to watch me play as they trotted off. I felt a bit like the Pied Piper of Hamelin. (You know, minus trapping the children in a mountain to punish their parents.)

The rest of the week went smoothly, and on Saturday afternoon I was off to Spain. You might remember from my last post that Eid al-Adha, the Muslim festival which includes sheep sacrifice, was coming up. Well, rather than listen to thousands of dismayed sheep bleating across the city (and smelling them roasting later on) I opted to travel to northern Spain. My goal, San Sebastián, (Donostia in Basque) was only two flights and a three-hour bus ride away. On the first flight I sat next to a young man who had never flown before. Through him, I remembered the wonder of seeing the tops of clouds for the first time. It was great seeing the look in his eyes in the moment when the plane lifted off the runway.

Smooth sailing at the Madrid airport, though I’ve never liked the place. It’s sprawling, sterile, unnecessarily cavernous, and always seems empty in relation to its size. I looked out the window on my flight to Santander and was lulled to sleep by the gray expanse of clouds and the sound of the engine. I woke up to turbulence and passengers discussing it nervously. There was a tense atmosphere as the plane shook and wobble its way through the storm, but I closed my eyes and ears, and let the airplane rock me back to sleep. We landed over water, with the last sunlight glowing faintly behind a wall of clouds. After crossing a drizzly runway, I splurged and paid 8.50 euros for a Spanish-English dictionary, figuring that it would be a good resource should any translation crises occur.³ Half an hour after my flight arrived, I caught the night bus⁴ to San Sebastián, about a three-hour journey.

We rushed through the night, rain glistening on the ground, across a landscape so dark that it blended into the overcast night sky. The other passengers chatted quietly or slept. We stopped in Bilbao and I was the only one left besides an elderly couple in the back who stood to stretch their legs, then sank comfortably back down into their seats. I looked out at Bilbao and thought for a while about how shockingly different the scenery was from Morocco. Even after only four months, I was so used to the landscape, the structures, and the people that Spain seemed utterly alien to me. I had even been taken aback by the bathrooms at the airport, with their uniform, painted doors and automatic dryers. The road had rails, lights, and resembled most of the roads I was used to from the US. But where were the grand taxis crammed full of people traveling two towns over? Where were the boys selling onions and live chickens by the side of the road? Where were the familiar mosque towers in every village? What about the occasional run-down bus careening precariously as it rattles and whizzes down a mountain road? I felt a brief moment of homesickness for Morocco, until the Spanish bus driver honked his horn. That felt a little more like home.⁵ I arrived in San Sebastián at night, in the rain, and headed to a friend’s house. Undaunted by the howling wind and violent raindrops on my window, I went to sleep excited about my first experience in Basque Country the following day.

The next day it rained, too. In fact, I was told by my friend that it was the most unpleasant weather he’d ever seen in the city. Crossing a bridge by the port, I saw waves taller than any I’d ever seen, blown in by ferocious winds. We walked around town until every article of clothing was soaked, fingertips wrinkled.  Stopped into a bar for orange juice and warmth. It was crowded with refugees of the wind and rain, who chatted and sipped their coffee while waiting out the storm. We trudged home eventually, squelch squelch squelch, and changed into dry clothes. After a simple three-course lunch and a delicious nap, I spent the evening discussing psychology, learning Basque pronunciation, and listening to the rain.

On Monday the rain was light enough for me to explore San Sebastián all day. As my sandals were soaked from the night before, my friend lent me a pair of sneakers and off I went. Mid-morning, I slipped into Cathédrale Buen Pastor behind two women in beige raincoats. My plan was to stay long enough to dry off a bit, but it was so peaceful that I ended up sitting in a pew for three quarters of an hour, writing down my thoughts⁶ and admiring the Neo-Gothic architecture. Women walked in every couple of minutes, pausing briefly in front of the pulpit before continuing to the other side. Bells chimed nine times, twice, and sounded much more distant inside than out.

I looked at the arching ceilings and the orange-yellow light coming from electric bulbs attached to every few columns. It was so dark outside that even the stained glass windows were dim, barely illuminated by a gray sky. (So different from that day in Sacre Coeur when I stepped into a dappled pool of light that danced down from colored glass.) There was a pipe organ in the back of the cathedral. I’ve always wanted to be in a church when somebody is practicing the organ.⁷ To hear and feel the music as it ricochets across columns, in and out of pews, brushes against each colored pane of glass before catching warm candle air and rising swiftly away like a freed balloon.

Passing women gone, I found myself alone in the cathedral. Just me, the columns, and the shadows. Rows of wooden pews waiting for the next mass. I spent some time studying the confessionals; I’ve never confessed. I’ve only seen it in movies. I wondered briefly if it’s like going to a therapist. What are the differences? What does it feel like to have your sins peeled away? Do you feel light and free, or naked, exposed, and alone?

Sitting there, in the dim electric light, I was reminded of a library. Or maybe, for me, libraries are cathedrals. Holy places. I could so easily imagine the walls lined with books, every cranny and crevice, all the way up to the stained glass. Around the lower windows, climbing one at a time like ivy, books filling this beautiful, arched space. There would be the tallest ladders stretching up into the shadows. The pipe organ remains, of course, and every time it’s played, the books would shake off their dust and resonate with joy.

I wandered down the streets of San Sebastián, hunched in the rain. I tried on hats in a very fancy hat shop, and the Spanish-speaking saleswoman was extremely patient. Eventually decided against a hat that day, as none were waterproof. I followed the scent of fresh bread to a bakery and was amazed at the number of people bustling in and out despite the rain. A sign of a good bakery. I found out from a man in a music shop that there were no accordions for sale in the entire city.⁸ I played piano in a second music shop, but was refused an audience with the mandolin. I was drawn into another shop by a beautiful dress in the window, and decided to make it myself in Morocco. Whenever I passed a fashion shop, I received judgmental looks from the people inside. I must have been a funny sight; oversized men’s sneakers, voluminous blue skirt with pockets, mismatched turtleneck, tiny backpack. I consoled myself by deciding that, were they visiting for the weekend from Morocco with only a few items of clothing, most of which had gotten soaked the day before, they would be dressed that way too.

In the early evening, I returned to the cathedral for a second time. It was even more deserted than it had been earlier in the day. The rush hour street sounds were muffled and distant, and when I sneezed it echoed all around the room. The stained glass was dimmer than ever, and I closed my eyes for a few minutes as all my thoughts drifted away into the dark. I had pintxos (pronounced “peen-cho”) for dinner, and they were so good that couldn’t stop thinking about them for hours afterward. (A pintxo, dear reader, is the Basque version of tapas, only about ten times more delicious.) Went to bed and dreamed of picnics in the sun.

On Tuesday I woke up early with sunlight⁹ trickling in through my window. My first stop was a recommended bakery, where I picked up a baguette and a croissant. Ate the croissant while crossing the city, much to the envy of passers-by on their way to work. I walked through the old town and climbed up, up, up the hill to the old fort.¹⁰ Clouds were spread out across the sky in ripples, like a worn out blanket, sea glimmering below. The ocean was dappled with sunlight, and the rugged clouds above made it look like two landscapes instead of one. A red sailboat bobbed miles out, as clouds floated past it and the ocean changed color with the sun. I looked the other way, over the city, and saw mist rising off the buildings and hills. I sat in a park at the top of the hill, nibbling my baguette and enjoying my first glimpse of sun in three days. I listened to birds chirping and muffled footsteps on stone. Too late in the year for tourists, the people who passed by were runners, dog walkers, middle-aged lovers. I tried to lure a bird in front of my camera with a piece of baguette, but it got the better of both me and the bread. I walked down, squinting in the sunlight, past happy dogs and a family on a picnic.

On the bus to Santander, I watched the Basque countryside drift lazily by. Old stone farmhouses with terra cotta roofs. Rectangular and blocky with small square windows, they made me think of cow herds, strawberry jam, and family around the fire. Every so often, the ocean would appear between two hills. I remember thinking about the huge valleys going by with sheep grazing on the slopes, then remembering that I was going by, not the valleys, and certainly not the sheep. Other roads twisted through fields and trees, disappearing into the hills. I thought about how I would like to come back and explore every single one of them, given the time.¹¹

In Santander, I visited yet another historic cathedral and, for the first time in my life, lit one of those tiny prayer candles.¹² I bought yarn at a knitting shop, sipped tea and read a book in a café, visited a dive bar with a friend, and ended my day curled on her couch, crocheting a scarf and listening to Spanish television. In the airplane on the way back, I looked out the window as we crossed the mountains of northern Spain. There were roads zig-zagging up steep slopes, and I imagined cars simply tumbling backdown. The sun glinted across rivers, like spotlights in succession. Further south, a dense cloud bank hung over farmland. The clouds looked so solid that it seemed it would hurt to fall into into them. They were packed tightly, with a band of blue sky above, followed by another stretch of solid, white clouds that ended in a line near the horizon as if painted on with one, long brush stroke. In the midst of turbulence, the flight crew offered fake cigarette packs over the intercom. “Tobacco flavored. They produce NO smoke!”

1. If you didn’t catch all my pre-Halloween adventures in the last post, go take a look.
2. Ironically, I think this was the closest I’ve gotten to dressing like a Moroccan. Long skirt, long sleeves, head covering…
3. I had a printed page of useful Spanish phrases, too.
4. The bus driver had a passenger list, and knew my name as soon as I reached for my UK passport.
5. Morocco may be the only place I’ve been where drivers honk more than they do in Washington, DC.
6. Most of this post was written by hand in the cathedral, on the back of my San Sebastián map.
7. When do they do it? In the middle of the day? At night? Does it wake up the neighbors?
8. So much for my half-baked “buy an accordion and somehow transport it back to Tangier” plan.
9. Finally!
10. Thanks to the pleasant weather, I was out of the man shoes and back in my sandals, skirt, and leggings.
11. There is a beautiful coastal path from San Sebastián to Hondarribia, a neighboring town, that takes about ten hours to hike. It’s already on my to-do list for my next visit to the area.
12. I spent about five minutes deliberating over this, but decided eventually that one does not have to be religious to light a candle. I decided that I would light mine to send good wishes and love to my friends and family back in the states.

Over the first few days I organized my beautiful apartment,¹ met some co-workers, and even introduced myself (awkwardly) to a couple of neighbors. I went on an unsuccessful quest for basil, oregano, rosemary, and aloe vera plants. I had my first tagine.² I explored the oldest parts of the city, enjoyed a sunset on the beach with my toes in the sand, and visited an ancient Phoenician burial site.³ I sat by a lighthouse at night, sipping mint tea and enjoying the sea breeze. I charmed some street cats.⁴ I ate a cactus.

My first weekend, I explored a famous cave,⁵ collected shells on the beach, and wandered the medina at night. I swam laps in the ocean⁶, climbed a cliff, and helped my friends break into their car (using only a piece of wire and patience) after they locked the keys in the trunk. Taught a friend to play gin rummy and was trounced three times in row. Ate two traditional Moroccan cookies from a bakery filled with happy bees. Sat in my bedroom at night with just the lamp on and the window open, listening to the sounds of the city outside. One dog barking, a couple of sirens, the muffled clinking of silverware on plates as someone ate a late dinner. The sound of the breeze and crickets on the hill.

1. Even the building is great, with a giant atrium-like hallway filled with plants that all the neighbors look after.
2. Lentil, served with cumin, paprika, and fresh bread.
3. Really cool. It was a rock-covered hillside and there were these big rectangular holes that had been hewn out of the rock. Apparently the bodies were buried in lead coffins in these holes, but the coffins have long since been stolen or given to museums, so all that’s left is the rock face.
4. The cats here, by the way, are not strays. They just wander the city and everyone in the community looks after them.
5. Hercules Cave, or Grottes d’Hercule. See photos.
6. At my new favorite beach.

Along with the hilarious gift items, there were also some really beautiful earthenware bowls and teapots, scarves, tapestries, and I think I noticed decorative swords for sale in nearly every shop. (Careful, kids.) We lunched at a vegetarian restaurant called “Lucky Creation”, where I enjoyed the best potstickers of my life and my friend had the “sizzling spicy shrimp balls”,³ which was poured into a hot iron dish in front of us so we could see the sizzling action first-hand.

Then on to City Lights bookstore, one of our regular stops. Instead of looking at books this time, I just sat and enjoyed the feeling of an independent bookstore filled with people.⁴

As the sun went down, we swung by a local Italian restaurant, Trattoria Contadina, for a scrumptious dinner.⁵ Later in the evening I researched ground transportation from Dulles airport back to DC, and thought about how sad I’ll be to leave my favorite city.⁶

More photos on Flickr.

1. It is, in fact, the oldest Chinatown in North America.
2. I don’t need to pretend.
3. When his food arrived, I quipped, “Shouldn’t they be a little smaller than that?” and sniggered quietly for a few minutes.
4. I also discovered that one of my favorite versions of Pinocchio, beautifully written and illustrated by French graphic artist Winshluss, now has an English language version. To be honest, I was a bit disappointed that they didn’t carry the French one, but ultimately happy that it’s been brought to an American audience. Be prepared, though, for an unconventional, graphic, and occasionally obscene retelling. As one reviewer on Amazon puts it, “No child should ever see a woman riding Pinocchio’s face.”
5. I had a beet/arugula/ radish/goat cheese/pistachio salad, followed by ravioli, and then  a spumoni cake with four delicious flavors of gelato for dessert.
6. Especially since summer is in full swing by now back home; 90-degree temperatures and suffocating humidity.

More photos on Flickr.

More photos on Flickr.

More photos on Flickr.

1. Against all logic, this restaurant is housed in an Irish pub.

Many, many more photos on Flickr.

1. In and out, line included, in under five minutes.
2. Mymy Coffee Shop, on the corner of Larkin and California. Awesome menu, yummy food. If I lived here I would go every week.

1. Yes, I know it’s wrong to eat crèpes in Japantown. But there were TWO crèperies there! What was I supposed to do, ignore them both?
2. It took me a good 10 minutes to pry open the tin with a nickel I had in my pocket. It turns out there is a beer-flavored version of the same candies. Who knew?
3. Surprisingly, it was right near our scary neighborhood.

1. Past a grouchy-looking prostitute and a gas station billboard with a J.D. Salinger quotation.
2. Watch all of them online here!
3. I was pleasantly surprised by this movie theater. It was small and a little shabby, but had exactly the kind of patrons I love to watch movies with. And is right across from a great thrift store.
4. It’s half Indian restaurant, half Irish pub, and the combination is exactly as weird as you’d expect it to be.