Small Miracles at the Salt Lake City Wal-Mart

     Don't hate me for appreciating the small things in life.
     When I got to my daughter's dance class yesterday, the teacher informed me the girls were making drums, and that we were supposed to have brought in a coffee can or a round oatmeal box.
     Well, it seems I didn't get the e-mail, so I rushed off to buy a container of oatmeal, since I don't drink coffee.  The dance studio is in an unfamiliar part of town for me, but I had seen a Wal-Mart sign on the way there that was just a few blocks from the school.  I found the store easily enough, but as I turned into the parking lot, lo and behold, it revealed itself to be a double-decker parking terrace!  At a Wal-Mart!
     This Wal-Mart is close to the interstate in an industrial area (I now know this Wal-Mart is called the Salt Lake City Wal-Mart, although there are approximately 3.5 billion Wal-Marts in the metro Salt Lake City area), so I wouldn't think property values would be high enough to warrant a parking terrace, but who am I to second-guess the ghost of Bill Walton?  I think we can be reasonably sure Wal-Mart wouldn't spend money on a parking structure unless it had to.
     At any rate, for all I know, there are thousands of Wal-Marts across this earth that have attached parking terraces, but this was the first I had seen, and for some reason, it filled me with inexplicable joy.  My hopes were dashed, however, when I realized the ramp leading to the second-story terrace was blocked off with what looked like orange police tape.  There was no explanation given--just the tape and some orange cones, sure indications that I was not to proceed.

First level of the Salt Lake City Wal-Mart parking terrace.

     I parked, instead, in the darkness of the first-story lot, which was odd, because I'm used to seeing sunlight--or at least moonlight as I walk into a Wal-Mart.  But as I passed into the entrance where all the carts are stored, I got another surprise--this Wal-Mart had an escalator!   And it was functioning!  It only came down--there was a regular stairway that one presumably used to go up--but it was an escalator!  In a Wal-Mart!  This was even cooler than the two-level parking structure.
     Since I was under time pressure (Miss Sarah had said they would start making the drums in fifteen minutes), I ran and found the oatmeal box and paid for it.  Then I ran up the stairway next to the escalator to take a peek at the second-story parking terrace.  The doors leading outside were locked, but I could see the empty lot through the glass.  It looked like a wonderful place to park.  I hope that whatever red tape  is holding up its use will be resolved quickly to the satisfaction of all parties.
     After gazing a few more moments at a potential second-story parking space for my Nissan Altima, I took the escalator back downstairs.  Oh, the sheer joy of riding an escalator in Wal-Mart!  The surrealism was just too much.  I wanted to grab an umbrella and pretend I was in a Magritte painting.
     Alas, as all good things do, my ride came to an end.  I walked back out into the darkness to my car.

Job Fair Fare

     I didn't intend this blog to be a vent for my PTSD frustration, which was brought on by my Cornell Law School experience.   (For those of you not yet hip to psychiatric acronyms, PTSD stands for post-traumatic stress disorder.)
     But yesterday's post was so therapeutic that I thought I could save on psychiatry bills by doing another Cornell-based post today.
     You're already familiar with the article I wrote for the Cornell Law School Tower on the Cornell Law School tower, but you may not yet have come across my piece for the same publication entitled--quite appropriately--"Expert Rates Job Fair Fare."
     In this piece, I explain the intricacies of job fair catering, and give future job-seekers in the legal field the tools they need to plan their future job fair schedules.  Because thousands of new law students will begin their studies in September, I thought I'd better get this out now so they can start planning accordingly.
     Please enjoy "Expert Rates Job Fair Fare," originally published in the spring of 1999.

Expert Rates Job Fair Fare

Snapple:  does anyone still drink this stuff?

     I was hunched over a starched linen tablecloth at the San Francisco Crowne Plaza, cookie in my mouth and peach Snapple by my side.  It was my tenth cookie and fourth Snapple; not bad considering we'd had lunch a half hour earlier.
     Audrey Woon, class of 2000, glared at me, which was not surprising, since it was not the first time I'd made a pig of myself at a job fair.  "You should do an article on job fair food for The Tower," she said.  "You could call it "'Seven Job Fairs, Seven Pounds.'"  With a title like that, how could I refuse?
     In reality, I only attended four job fairs.  And truthfully, I probably gained more like seventy pounds from the "free" food subsidized by my tuition dollars.  But the fact remains, I am the hands-down Cornell expert on job fair fare, and I will now attempt to rate the spreads I was fortunate enough to experience.  In keeping with the rigorous standards of Cornell Law School, I will award letter grades to the various fairs that, when averaged, yield a perfect 3.3.

New York, Royal Rihga Hotel
     While the atmosphere at the New York Job Fair was intense, charged, and competitive, the food was bland, nondescript, and quite frankly, absent.
     Morning:  if you wanted anything for breakfast, you had to get up early, because by 9 a.m., there wasn't much left.  What was left was likely to be swept away by a tuxedo-clad waiter before you could say "bagel with cream cheese."  The key word here was dainty (read skimpy):  microscopic muffins, inconsequential croissants, banal bagels (full-sized, but cut in half), and not much else.
     Afternoon:  nada--just water and iced tea.  Cheapos.
     Grade:  C-  (Which, coincidentally, was my grade in Civil Procedure)

Scene of the culinary crime:  New York's Royal Rihga Hotel.  

Los Angeles, Hotel Sofitel
     This hotel is one pretentious place, and I suppose it would be a miracle if it were not, given its location across the street from the Beverly Center in Beverly Hills.  The Sofitel tries hard, with royal blue canopies, doormen in pseudo-Renaissance livery, and enormous paintings in a style best described as Fauve-Impressionist-Van Gogh-Swirls-Here-and-There.
     But the food wasn't bad.

Sofitel Los Angeles:  keep those chocolate-covered macaroons coming.

     Morning:  we were greeted with a selection of crisp croissants and gooey, very American cinnamon rolls served with fresh-squeezed orange juice and a variety of jams and jellies. The best part was that the staff kept the selection replenished throughout the morning.
     Afternoon:  cookies and iced tea.  Kudos, again, to the staff, for keeping the cookies re-stocked.  Most of them were nothing special--in fact, the pecan shortbread was nasty.  But the Sofitel saved its rating with its chocolate-covered macaroons.  These were truly a feast for the eye and the palate:  a triangular white cookie, oozing moist coconut, dipped in rich, semi-sweet chocolate. Divine.  But because I made the mistake of singing these cookies' praises too early, I only got one.
     Grade:  B

Sofitel Beverly Hills:  chichi blue awnings can only take you so far.

San Francisco, Crowne Plaza Hotel
     This hotel was once a Holiday Inn, so fortunately, it didn't take itself as seriously as the two previous institutions.
     Morning:  fresh-squeezed orange juice, a variety of Danish pastries (the blueberry ones were especially good), croissants (better consistency than L.A.), and orange-cranberry muffins (almost as good as one I paid about five bucks for in some trendy eatery selected by Benita Lee, class of '99, in Venice Beach two days earlier).
     Afternoon:  individual bottles of Snapple!  They were simply, but tastefully, served in a tub of crushed ice, and while they may not have packed the panache of iced tea, they hit the spot.
     And the cookies that came with them!  Amazing!  Big, chewy rounds of chocolate-chocolate chip, oatmeal raisin, and peanut butter.  Pure heaven, but combined with the syrupy Snapple, they left us all in imminent danger of insulin shock.
     Grade:  A-

From Holiday Inn to job fair Valhalla:  the San Francisco Crowne Plaza

Miami, Hotel Intercontinental
     This was not so much a job fair as a mini-vacation.  There were only three Cornellians in attendance, and yes, we enjoyed ourselves.
     The hotel is located right on Biscayne Bay, and the interviewers' rooms had some gorgeous views.  The atmosphere here was the polar opposite of that of the New York Job Fair:  these interviewers seemed genuinely impressed we went to Cornell.
     Morning and afternoon:  it was an all-day buffet of watermelon, cantaloupe, blueberries, bagels, cream cheese, orange juice, croissants, muffins, teas, and soft drinks in chilled, 16-ounce bottles.  In fact, the sheer volume and variety of refreshment available make it impossible for me to mention everything.
     The most amazing thing, however, is that when we got ready to go to lunch--at about 1 p.m.--there was still so much food on the buffet that we didn't bother to leave the hotel.  And they kept the food coming until the bitter (bittersweet, actually) end.
     Grade:  A+

Miami vice:  job fair buffet at the Hotel Intercontinental

     I hope this information will prove useful in selecting the job fairs you will attend next year.  Until then, bon appetit!

Tour of the Tower

     My last post got me thinking about my law school days, which got me thinking of how I spent more time writing for the law school newspaper than I did studying for my classes, which reminded me of a piece I wrote called "Tour of the Tower."
     This was a play-by-play account of my ascent to the top of the eight-story College Gothic tower that looms over Cornell Law School (as if the place weren't creepy enough already).  Students are not allowed up there, so I had to go with a special "guide."  It was all a bit unnerving, but I decided to take one for the team.
     You all know how much I hate to toot my own horn, but I've had so many requests for this piece over the years (from people who obviously forgot to cut it out and put it in their scrapbooks at the time) that I've finally decided to post it and be through with it.  Hurry and print it for your records while you have the chance.
     So...here it is, exactly as it appeared in the April 9, 1998 edition of the Cornell Law Tower, with the exception that spelling and punctuation have been modernized (it was published back in 1998, remember).  NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED. Annotations in bold are mine.

Tour of the Tower

An image of the Tower, taken on the one day that Ithaca, New
York actually had a blue sky (or is it the work of Photoshop?)

     I think all of us here at Cornell Law have gazed up at the ominous, eight-story stack of rocks rising from Myron Taylor Hall (the law school) and wondered, "What's in there?  And why can't I go up there?"  I'm about to answer both questions with the expert assistance of June Morehouse, Assistant Director of Administration here at the law school, who will be our guide on a "Tour of the Tower."
     Our tour begins at a regular wooden door marked "Elevator," which is located half-way down the third-floor hall that runs from the reading room to the moot court room.  June opens the door, and after a polite greeting from Visiting Professor Josef Straus (who is coming out as we go in) she leads me through a small foyer and pulls open a heavy wooden door, revealing an ancient elevator.  "Come in," she says.  She must sense reluctance on my part, because she adds, "Don't worry, it's been modernized."  (Cue chattering of teeth.)

The elevator looked similar to this one, only more derelict.

     The elevator is one of those metal cage affairs that you would expect to see staffed by a uniformed attendant, but this one is empty.  Jane takes matters into her own hands, pushes some buttons, and as we ascend--very slowly--we're treated to a view of the bricks that form the tower's interior.  "Luckily there's a phone in here now," says June.  "Before the remodeling, if you got stuck in this elevator, you could have been here for days."  (Cue creepy organ music.)
     The cage finally creaks open on the seventh floor, and we step out onto a narrow landing with a flight of stairs to one side.  I ask where the stairs lead.  "To the observation deck," says June.  I ask if the deck--which makes up the Tower's eighth and top floor--will be included on our tour.  June shakes her head.  "Only the Facilities Office has a key," she says.
     As we begin our exploration of the seventh floor, June tells me levels five, six, and seven of the Tower function largely as a hotel for visiting professors.  There is daily maid service, which consists of light cleaning and changing of linen, and a common kitchen and living room that guests are entitled to share.  One other thing:  Hotel Myron Taylor is absolutely free (made possible, in part, by the fact I was paying $34,000 a year in tuition).
     The first room we enter is the kitchen, which is quite small and quite Sixties given its aqua cabinetry.  As we pass into the living room, June says, "I always warn peopel to keep the windows closed up here because the pigeons come in."  (Cue creepy music from The Birds.)
     The living room is a truly great space, with high ceilings, cranberry carpet, and teal mouldings.  (Okay, so my taste in color schemes was a little off back then.)  There's a black baby grand piano (impromptu concerts have been known to happen, according to June), an impressive antique desk, and several comfy couches and faux Louis Quinze chairs.  The dining table seats eight, there is a fireplace in one corner (functional, but never used), and over the fireplace hangs a portrait of an august male personage whose name seems to be lost to Cornell posterity (it's definitely not Myron Taylor or Ezra Cornell).  The best thing about the room is its 270-degree view of campus, Cayuga Lake, and the town of Ithaca.

Approximate view from the Tower's seventh floor.

     Suddenly it becomes clear to me why Professor Robert Kent waxed poetic one day last December in Aladdin's (a local restaurant at the time--since I've never been back to Ithaca, I don't know whether it still exists) about the days when law school luncheons were held in the Tower rather than in the Berger Atrium.  Compared to the Tower's gemütlich ambience and expansive views, the atrium is a claustrophobic mausoleum.  (Actually, the Berger Atrium is a claustrophobic mausoleum no matter what you compare it to.)  I ask June why law school events are no longer held in the Tower, and without missing a beat,  she hands me a copy of the 1989 letter from the New York State Uniform Code people that put an end to the fun. 

Myron Taylor Hall's delightful Berger Atrium, modeled
after a federal prison yard somewhere in the Ozark Mountains.

     It seems no fire truck in Ithaca has a ladder long enough to rescue the potential victims of this potential eight-story inferno.  (As you know, rock and brick are prone to spontaneous combustion)  As a result, the total occupancy of this massive room--which could easily accomodate fifty people--is now limited to six.  (Dean Osgood, if you're reading this, it might be worth a hundred grand to buy a used fire truck with a long ladder and park it out back.  Dean Siliciano could man it, if necessary.)  (Dean Siliciano was a volunteer fireman, hee-hee.)
     "Watch your step," June tells me, as we make our way down a narrow staircase to the sixth floor, home to two combination bed/sitting rooms and a shared bath.  June knocks politely on the door of 6 West, and Hildegard Straus (wife of Josef Straus), invites us in.  This is a large room, with two twin beds covered in floral bedspreads, a built-in desk with a large mirror, a sitting area with two comfortable-looking chairs, a TV, and for whatever reason, closet space sufficient for Imelda Marcos.  (Readers in 1998 would have known that Imelda Marcos, wife of former Philippine dictator Ferdinand Marcos, had a penchant for stockpiling thousands of pairs of pricey designer shoes.) 

Imelda Marcos shows off part of her shoe collection.

     Professor and Mrs. Straus (I don't remember now if they were German, Swiss, or Austrian, but they were European) have been coming to Cornell for a six-week preiod every two years since 1989, and with one ill-fated exception involving a bad Ithaca landlord (in other words, a normal Ithaca landlord) they have stayed in the Tower.  I ask Mrs. Straus how she finds the conditions.  "Very comfortable," she says in her euphonious German accent.  "We are very thankful to stay here."  The only inconveniences she notes are the shared bathroom and the late-night door-slamming of some of the other Tower tenants.  "Maybe they're all young people," she says.  (Or just rude old people.)
     Because 6 East is the mirror image of 6 West, with slightly different furniture, we will forego its description and move on to the shared bathroom, which suffers from an identity crisis.  Is this the bathroom of a pseudo-hotel...or is it a locker room?   As you walk in, you are immediately greeted by those cold steel partitions found in institutional bathrooms across the world.  But here the walls are painted pale pink, and when you open the first gray metal door, you're greeted by a homey wooden vanity next to an institutional toilet.  The shower, behind its own gray metal door, is covered in pinkish tile.  

   

Ithaca...or Transylvania?  The Tower in winter
(i.e., every month other than July).

     Next we go downstairs to 5 East, which is June's favorite room. It's more inviting than the previous rooms, with warm ivory walls, antiques, and a walk-in closet.  Next door is 5 West, or the "Blue Room," the star of which is an antique cherry secretaire.  We sit down for a few moments on the blue couch to finish our interview.  "The Tower is not the Ritz," says June, "but it is unique.  Some guests stay here, then move to the Statler (Ithaca's premier hotel at the time), and then request to come back here."

     Finally, we descend to the Tower's fourth floor, which is dedicated to the law school's computer department.  I can thoroughly describe this place in seven words:  post-it notes and random computer components...everywhere.  There are also two xerox (wow, I haven't used that word for awhile) portraits of department director Elmer Masters on one wall.  The first, labeled "Pre-CLS," (CLS = Cornell Law School) is normal; the second, "Post-CLS," has horns and fangs. (Speaking of Transylvania....)

     We take the elevator back to the third floor--the official starting point of the Tower--and stick our heads into the Alumni Office, where I bid June a very fond and thankful adieu.  Then I go straight to the Facilities Office to see about getting access to the eighth-floor observation deck.  "Promise me you won't jump," says the person (who shall remain anonymous) who grants me permission.  Another guide is appointed to accompany me, and we're off.

     As we step out onto the eighth floor--which is open to the elements--the wind nearly blows my ratty red hat off.  "They need a picnic table up here," says my guide.  I agree.  This would be a great place to eat lunch.  (Except for the fact that Ithaca is covered in snow from mid-August to mid-May.  I guess people could eat up there, al fresco, in snow suits.  It could be an après-ski kind of thing.)

April comes to Myron Taylor Hall:  spring blossoms
look best against a backdrop of snow and gray skies.

     I peer over the edge of the stone balcony and get dizzy.  The students spread out on the benches of the courtyard below look like ants.  Suddenly one of the ants starts waving its hands and yelling my name.  It's first-year law student Zoe Bikos, wondering what I'm doing up here.

     As I follow my guide back to the elevator, I reflect on the melancholy fact that so few people are currently permitted to experience the pleasures of the Tower.  I vow that someday, when I'm a big shot in my corner office, I'll make a donation to Cornell Law School:  the Todd Morrill Memorial Fire Truck.  (Uh, since the corner office thing hasn't happened--yet--I guess that vow is on hold.)

“Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch’entrate!”
(from Dante's Inferno)

On Human Feedbags

     I consider myself the inventor of grazing (eating all day long), since I was doing it long before it became fashionable, but I'm more proud of my other gastronomic innovation:  the human feedbag.

The original feed bag for horses.

     You've probably seen--in TV shows or movies--those bags of grain they strap onto horses' mouths so they can eat without the need for a trough.

     Well, while I was in law school--studying my heart out at all hours of day and night in the depths of the Cornell Law School basement--I had a Eureka! moment:  humans can use feedbags, too!

     I had an old blue and red gym bag that I filled with bags of generic Doritos, apples, candy bars, baby carrots, all manner of Little Debbie snacks, peanuts and a host of other nutritious and non-nutritious items, and whenever I got hungry, rather than go home or scout out the nearest vending machine, I simply opened my feedbag and indulged.

                                

Just a few of the delightful products that work well in Human Feed Bags.

     Talk about a time saver!

     Of course, I never broke the rules by eating in the library basement (although I know plenty of people who did, and I could name names, if necessary).  I had the decency and courtesy to ascend to the first floor lobby--which is like the hall of a medieval English castle without the suits of armor--where I feasted at a huge oak table in front of an enormous fireplace.  Lest you get the idea this hall was warm and inviting, it was not:  the fireplace was never lit, the hall was always dark, and it was usually freezing.

Someday they'll film a horror movie here:
Cornell Law School, scene of my Eureka! moment.

     But I'll save my hatred of Cornell Law School for another post.

     Returning to feedbags, they also worked well during class.  Since most of my classes at Cornell Law School were enormous, and held in huge auditoriums, it was easy to eat faux Doritos from a gym bag without being reprimanded by the professor.  And when I tired of being at the law school, which was virtually all the time, I could take my feedbag and escape to the main campus library, to one of the lush gorges that dot the Cornell campus (only in May, though--during the rest of the school year these gorges are filled with snow), or to the courtyard of the business school, where I reveled in anonymity and feedbag cuisine.

An option:  the Tory Burch Feed Bag.

     To initiate your own feedbag regimen, all you need is some instrument in which to carry snacks (I recommend diminutive gym bags for guys, but females may want to consider the very handy Tory Burch Feed Bags, Louis Vuitton totes, or Fendi baguettes), the snacks themselves, and the determination to eat anytime and anywhere you have the urge.
     Buon appetito!

     

Beautiful Gas Stations

     There are few things I appreciate more than a beautiful gas station, a gas station in a beautiful location, or a beautiful gas station in a beautiful location.  After all, we have to fill up, so why not do so aesthetically?
     What follows are descriptions of the five most beautiful gas stations I've encountered in my life.  Two of them I haven't seen for a few years, so I'm not sure if they're still there, but the other three are definitely still in business, ready for your patronage.

1.  Gas Station, Avenida Munoz-Rivera, Puerta de Tierra, San Juan, Puerto Rico


     When I lived in Puerto Rico, I would walk nearly every morning from my apartment in Condado to Old San Juan and back, which was several miles each way.  On this journey, I would pass by a gas station--I can't remember which brand it was now--located right on the bluffs overlooking the turquoise Caribbean.  Behold the view:

Pumps with a view:  fill up and hit the surf.

     I haven't been to Puerto Rico for a few years, so I'm not sure if the gas station is still there, but I'm sure the view is.
     I couldn't find the station on Google Maps, but the link below will give you a general idea of where it was (is?)--somewhere along Avenida Munoz-Rivera (marked "25" on map) between Condado and the Capitol.
     It's worth going to Puerto Rico just to fill up there.

                                    Location of World's Most Beautifully Situated Gas Station


2.  Estacion Plaza Argentina, Avenida Las Americas, Guatemala City, Guatemala

     This station packs the double whammy--beautiful in itself and situated in a beautiful place.
     Avenida Las Americas is a wide boulevard that cuts between Guatemala City's tony Zones 13 and 14.  The busy thoroughfare has three lanes going each way, but the lanes are narrow, which keeps the avenue on a somewhat human scale.  The median--which is very wide--is filled with grass, pines, jacaranda trees, and fountains.
     About halfway between the traffic cirles (redondeles, in Guatemala) that mark the avenue's north and south ends, sits a Shell station that looks as if it was designed by Finnish American architect Eero Saarinen (for all I know, maybe it was).  The red pillars supporting the awning over the gas pumps are in the shape of Saarinen's tulip chairs, and the whole complex is vaguely reminiscent of the architect's TWA Terminal at JFK Airport.
     While you fill up, you can buy excellent mangoes and watermelons from a woman who runs a fruit stand in front of the station.

                                               Location of Estacion Plaza Argentina


3.  Hollow Mountain Gas and Grocery, Hanksville, Utah, USA  

     Located at the junction of Utah Routes 24 and 95, the convenience store of this gas station is literally inside of a mountain.  The novelty of the cave aside, the station is located in a beautiful red rock area of Southern Utah on the route to Lake Powell.
     Trails lead up to the top of the mountain--over the store--which afford amazing views of the surrounding countryside.
     While the store itself is nothing to write home about, the point here is location, location, location.

Hollow Mountain Gas and Grocery, Hanksville, Utah.

4.  Texaco Station, Santiago Atitlan, Lake Atitlan, Guatemala

     We return to Guatemala for our final two entries.  I know this seems disproportionate, but for whatever reason, Guatemalans appreciate a scenic gas station.  Or maybe it's that zoning laws (or the lack thereof) in the country allow gas stations where other countries don't.
     Be that as it may, alas and alack, this station no longer exists.  But when I first saw it, more than twenty years ago, it was fantastic:  it had one of those old-style metal Texaco signs in front of it (severely rusted), and "it" was actually nothing more than a wooden shack and one gas pump.

The sign at the Santiago gas station was similar to this one.

     But the view of the lake!  And the fascinating, remote countryside, where Guatemalan women in native dress were doing laundry by the side of the lake.  It was another world.

View of one of several volcanoes that can be seen from Santiago Atitlan.

  
     While the gas station is gone, there's a small hotel just down the dirt road from where the station stood.  It's called Hotel Posada de Santiago, and there's no better place to stay on Lake Atitlan.  Beautiful gardens, little stone bungalows with fireplaces, hammocks.  I'm packing my bags as I write this....

Exterior of bungalow and gardens at Posada Santiago.

Interior of bungalow at Posada Santiago.

5.  Shell Station, Avenida Vista Hermosa, Zona 15, Guatemala City

     I know what you're thinking:  how could the capital of a third-world country have not just one, but two--TWO--of the most beautiful gas stations in the world?  Like I've said, zoning could play a part, but Guatemalans do love a good gas station.
     In fact, that's where the rich kids hang out on weekends.  They stand around in the parking lots of fancy gas stations and drink.  The following video (taken at a different gas station) will give you an idea:

     But I digress.  The beautiful gas station I'm talking about is pictured below.

Wide shot of beautiful Shell station, Guatemala City,
looking south down Vista Hermosa Boulevard.

Close-up of beautiful Shell station, Guatemala City.

     If these photos don't exactly suggest Shangri-La, it's because you have to be there.  Aside from being the cleanest and best-kept gas station I have ever encountered (I would eat off the floor here, no kidding), this establishment is located directly across a small side street from the Guatemala City LDS Temple (Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints).  The temple is beautiful, with its white marble spires and lush landscaping, and the thoroughfare itself--Avenida Vista Hermosa--is also attractive, with thick groves of pines running down its median.

Guatemala City LDS Temple

     In addition to refreshment for cars, this gas station offers every kind of human refreshment imaginable, from made-to-order deli sandwiches to nachos.  Diner-style booths next to large glass windows are great places for people- and traffic-watching while you eat.
     Bon appetit!

Preface to Blog

     When a person writes, what he or she is really doing is inviting the reader into his or her mind. Unfortunately, many of us (myself included), often fail to have our minds in order before we invite visitors.  We would certainly clean up our houses before having guests for the weekend, but we don't bother to tidy up our minds before opening them up to readers.
     For the past few weeks, I've been going through a mental "spring cleaning," if you will, in preparation for starting this blog.  I've swept out the cobwebs, mucked out the stalls, and added new furniture to make your visit as comfortable as possible.
     So, welcome to my mind--sound or otherwise.  I hope to entertain you with wit, wisdom, and panache.