Room with an Oooh...

The first time I visited New York City, I was nothing less than alarmed by the size of my hotel room. Though my company had paid for it, I knew how much it cost, and so I stood in the doorway puzzled for several minutes looking for the handle that would let me out of the closet and into my actual room.

Once I let go of the disappointment of opening my window to a view of a brick wall on all sides and the pain of bashing my knees on the shower wall every time I sat on the toilet, I came to accept that this was it. After all, if you're in New York City, you aren't spending any time in your room anyway, I reasoned.

I let that first experience feed my expectations for all of my subsequent trips, and never winced again.

Then today happened. When I checked in, the concierge offered to upgrade me to a better room for a fee, and even though it sounded lovely, I declined it, keeping in mind my earlier rationale. Then, what seemed to be on a whim, he upgraded me for free. (Methinks the room was mine all along because it was what all that was available and I kind of unwittingly played hardball. Nice.)

When I stepped into this room, I knew I was spoiled (by this City's standards, anyway) forever. I can lie in bed and not simultaneously touch the walls on either side.

It has a bathtub and spa-style shower with seating. I'm standing on said seating for this shot:

Can you see in the background two--two!--chairs?

The toilet is in a different room. Its own room. And I can pace, if I need to, more than four steps without having to turn around. 

This is really an ordinary hotel room, but because it is here, it feels like luxury. And because of that I feel a little like a princess today.

Tomorrow is another day...

My posts have been sucking lately. I know it much more than everyone else. I am hoping that changes over the weekend when I have some free time and some free thought while I vacation (short-term) in Manhattan. Until then, there's this. Nothing. Oh Crap. This is nothing... 

It's getting it, that's complicated.

Driving to work today, I dug around my car for something, anything to listen to that I haven't heard a hundred times. I surfaced with Royksopp's Junior, which I have actually heard closer to about a thousand times, but because it is perfect, I don't mind. From the first note of Happy Up Here:

to the last beat of It's What I Want, I know every word, every crescendo, and every pause.
 

An Even Exchange.

I'm headed to NYC in a few days and excited that my Detroit Institute of Arts Reciprocal Membership buys me free admission to a several galleries off the standard grid. I'll be checking out the Rubin Museum of Art and The Studio Museum Harlem for sure. I'll report back...    

But for Want of a Nutcracker.

On my last day in Budapest a year ago last May, I walked (a bit longer than I'd calculated) all the way to Heroes' Square from where the river taxi dropped me at the shore of the Danube underneath Margaret Bridge.

The highlight of my day was the lone exhibit at the Hall of Art: Michaël Borremans' Eating the Beard.

You can see much of that work here.

I wasn't allowed to photograph any of the art, but there was this wonderful old projector in a stark corner that I was allowed every angle of.

 

My walk back to the River's edge seemed twice as long, except for the occasional curiosity, like the somehow slightly classier than its American equivalent "One Euro Market" and this:

There's a story behind these abandoned walnuts. I think. 

Spice Is the Variety of Life.

I’ll confess that I don’t have a very sophisticated palate. I’d rather suck on someone’s toes than eat goat cheese; take a big sniff of an old pair of underwear than taste prosciutto; or sample a cat treat than eat paté.

I love adventurous flavors and spices, but my preference is more toward the obvious and less the subtle. Pizza & beer (though both local and craft), steak & succotash, vindaloo & naan hit my table with some regularity. And tacos. As provincial as that may sound.

But at least I try to make them the best they can be, with super-lean ground beef, skillet fried soft tortillas if I’m feeling nasty, and this recipe for seasoning that, like me, I hope will make you never go back to a packet.

I add Aleppo pepper, because that’s what I do. And sometimes smoked cumin and half chipotle chili powder to give it a little extra...something.

A Rose by Any Other Name...

I'm relaxing on a king bed at an inn in the fair city of Montague, Michigan. The in-room jacuzzi faces White Lake and the coming sunset, as well as a few rowdy boaters.

I'm testing my first run of the Blogger mobile app and hoping this cool pic I just took out by the marshes (check the upper left corner) comes through like I want it to.

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