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AZ trip, the conclusion.
Up very early, and was reminded there’s really only one place you want to see the number 5 on your phone lock screen, and that’s the last place. As it happened, I saw 5:55, which is a cruel time. If I’d woken to 6:00, I would’ve thought "well fine then, that’s a proper hour to be awake, let’s make something of the day now.” But 5:55 is the antechamber of night, the last few minutes that belong more to night than morn.
Somehow I cursed myself back to sleep and woke at a proper time. Got up and made a cup of coffee with the Grandma Basics: Folger’s and a Mr. Coffee. Or maybe a Sunbeam. Or maybe a . . . what’s another legacy brand popular with her generation? Corning Ware? They made percolators.
I am fascinated by this ad for many reasons: the once-ubiquitous cornflower logo, the very 60s/70s middle-aged husband who has not looks but presumably a good job in the city pulling down some nice coin, and the endless difficulty of making good coffee. It's such a mystery for some women.
What was supposed to be a relaxing afternoon at the airport working on necessary work was thwarted, entirely, by three things:
1. Phoenix Sky Harbor Terminal 3 has a paucity of options for sitting or recharging or eating. MSP, my beloved airport, abounds. This is more like backwater terminal status.
2. Terminal 3 has a lack of dining options - and by that I mean “I’d like Chik-Fil-A but it’s Sunday and so burger it is,” not a sit-down place where you spend $40 on the simplest - nay, the stupidest of meals. There's a Shake Shack, but I have wearied of their outsized rep. So I went to Terminal 4 via the SkyTrain, which means you have to leave a secured area and check back in and go through security again. The lines are quick, so it wasn’t a problem.
There weren’t great options at Four. Are there ever? Burgers, pizza, Mexican, maybe Asian, some Fresh Organic place with sprouts and dark bread. I did want a burger, so I chose the Red Rock Burger restaurant, expecting something reasonably good. With dismay I saw a man eating a burger from a clamshell tray. It wasn’t very thick. The bun looked rote. When I was handed my own clamshell it was heavy, and the reason was clear when I opened it up: there was at least a pound of French fries.
SHOESTRING.
Ugh. Well, it filled a void, which is the highest review I can muster. Back to three. And here my troubles began.
3. Main problem: Housesitter lost the house keys on a dog walk. This led to about two hours of drama. Retracing steps, nothing. Partner arrives, helps, nothing. Relative with spares not available. Had to call a locksmith, worrying they would balk at the particulars of this arrangement.m“I’m calling from out of town, Housesitter lost keys, can you go help?”
“What’s the address”
So I guess anyone can call them to open up. Noted.
Just as things looked darkest, relative texts that she does have keys, so quick! Cancel locksmith! Quick! Tell Housesitter that this will not be an expensive escutcheon blot, that relief is close at hand! Waiting now for the text to say they’re back in the house and I can relax and get back to complaining about this airport. I mean, it’s nice, but there’s four outlets for 43,204 people.
Now to write the piece I was thinking about when I sitting outside getting the last bit of AZ sun, looking forward to an afternoon of disconnected relaxation.
I just finished a cup of coffee that cost $7.00. I could’ve got to Dunkin and paid less, I suppose. Like, $6.50. The meekness with which we treat airport gouging is appalling, no? “Well, it’s the airport, of course you’re going to pay nine dollars for a stick of gum.” Why? Does all the merchandise suffer a complete loss of structural coherence, and the atomic bonds have to be reforged one by one with the assistance of expensive electron microscopy? Were there pirates outside the airport who demanded tribute before the goods could proceed?
The worst thing is that the coffee, all seven dollars, did nothing to allay my sleepiness. A coffee that costs SEVEN DOLLARS ought to have you jumping like a jittery Hitler at the ’36 games. And I need another.
LATER: I did not get another. I found a place to sit and wrote.
LATER: Got on the plane, looking forward to shooting some footage for take off, the sights of the land below.
Well.
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It’s 1870.
As we frequently note, the paper in bygone times was work. The paper was a commitment.
There’s a long story on the vernacular of the American people, and its delight of metaphor.
News of the world:
It could’ve been a reaction to . . .
The Dilessi murders were committed between 4 and 7 April 1870, when one Italian and three English aristocrats were murdered at Dilesi , a coastal town in eastern Boeotia, by Greek brigands while touring the area near Marathon. The events triggered a crisis between Greece and the United Kingdom.
As for the plots in Paris, well, I imagine that the 19th century suffered no shortage of plots in Paris.
In which the intrepid reporter finds the doctor in his laboratory, and commences to interview him:
And it’s all an ad for Dr. Hoofland’s Celebrated German Bitters.
The lead editorial, written, we assume, by the Wrigglesworth brothers:
From a two-column back page “Current Events” feature:
What the hell is that?
Asafoetida is the dried latex exuded from the rhizome or tap root of several species of Ferula, perennial herbs of the carrot family. It is produced in Iran, Afghanistan, Central Asia, northern India, and Northwest China (Xinjiang). Different regions have different botanical sources.
Asafoetida has a pungent smell, as reflected in its name, lending it the common name of "stinking gum". The odour dissipates upon cooking; in cooked dishes, it delivers a smooth flavour reminiscent of leeks or other onion relatives. Asafoetida is also known colloquially as "devil's dung" in English (and similar expressions in many other languages).
Ah. So I’ve eaten it, then.
Resolve into inches.
Good to know they frowned on juvenile cruelty.
We leave you with this last dispatch to unravel as you please.
That'll do. It's back to the 50s now, and we're still working our way through Coffee. Substack Outtakes column for paid subscribers. Consider a subscription, won't you? It's like doubling your weekly Bleat content.
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