Yeah, so I'm back in Quito.
Whatever. That's how I feel and I'm not cautious about letting you know that I'm tired of this trip*. We went to the beach in Atacames. It was humid hot and the waves left something to be desired in any person making the leap from comfortably sipping on a drink to diving into the ocean. I've measured the limit of my fried shrimp intake. Not much new is developing. I've become shifty.
In Quito, it's the beginning of the end of the shoot in Ecuador. I'm weighing the option of out-right paying the aptly-named Cheap Tickets, possibly so for their "economy class" customer service, to change my flights. I might also research red eye'n & stand by'n my way home, which would be interesting, if it's even an option.
The food is making me sick. Period. Since I'm not eating cheese or meat, which principally entails over 60% of Ecuadorian cuisine available anywhere, I'm finding my narrowed diet is presenting some mundane problems. The same tastes everyday loose their palatability.
I wrote a short story about a man who pitches a breakfast plate idea to IHOP. His idea is stolen and he teams up with Little Richard, the original creator of the famous Tutti-Fruti, to get sweet revenge.
This is complaining. I'm well aware. I'm reading Don Delillo's Underworld. It's a beyond beefy book about the last fifty years of the US, as lived by different persons. Hopefully Chris is still at it so I'll have something to talk about next time we eat at Kerby.
Would you let me wax poetic about the experience? Would you feel too embarased reading a love letter from a man to a resturant?
Kerbey Lane is like a place out of some back alley memory of your childhood that seems so distant and fragile that recalling it might ruin it's value. It's recallability comes into question. As does it's authenticity. Might you attempt to fill in the gaps where the pieces don't quite fit together with plaster, to make a duplicate whole that really really isn't the real memory and nothing close to the experience? Some things are like that. Like little league games, or first kisses, or seeing a favorite film for the first time. We need to mend our memories to keep them alive and vibrant. If unbelievable, we have to make them believable to the people we've become. In short, you don't have to mend the memory of Kerby Lane with abstract tools. You can still walk into Kerby Lane Cafe (the original on Kerby Lane in Austin, Texas a few blocks west of Lamar) after agreeing without question over the phone at the mere proposal of a meeting around 1 to 2 am. You can today, if so inclined yet entirely awkwardly without a close posse of like-minded psychos, ask for a table next to a never-again date and the two cops who love wearing their guns in public. You can order anything you like, and it will come when it's ready to be eaten and not a second before you suddenly realize and remember you ordered food. You'll be demolished emotionally if your decision is wrong, if you're unsure of the options Stephan or Kalli or the girl with the tats on her arms has offered up to you. The food must be apt and you can't really discount the experience,waste your money, the time of your friends and the time of the cafe by trying to order something that you think might improve your mood. When I order Hummus and Tabooley tacos (2 with rice and beans and unlimited chips and tomato sauce) I've been eating that meal all day long. I've been eating those folded goo tacos since I woke up and I remember we haven't been to Kerby in a day. Going during the day is taking the head off the Easter bunny and pulling down Saint Nic's beard at the mall and snottily asking "You still gonna deliver?"... cause it just won't. Maybe that's the fragility of the experience. You have to be ready and you have to accept that you can't change it. If there was any possibility of that ever happening, they'd still have BBQ Chicken-Black Bean tacos on the menu. I desire the slight odor of mold hanging under other people's meals. The discussions at 2am are brave thesises on our state and condition. We exhault the emotions of the moment and paste the walls with things we might regret saying had we been lacking the comfort of believing the event wouldn't end. You want me to separate the wait from the eating? Why don't you try and separate the sex from the birth. It's life by the forkfull and mugfull. Come drunk, leave sober. Come worried, leave accepting your worry. Whether from 30 minutes away or 5, it's the same destination. And you if I found out you didn't tip because you were unhappy with the experience, blame your self. Take some responsibility for not accepting it for what it is. You pay around $6-9 for piece of mind.
I also want to drive my car there at night down 1 while listening to some KVRX.
I'm saving myself for a couple of Hummus and Tabooley tacos back home. Home at Original Kerby.
More coffee please. Black.