Friday evening drove down to Hollywood for another meal at Taco Beach Shack. We ordered the same thing as last time - Korean short rib tacos - forgetting to specify the type of tortillas. A different waiter from last time, a grumpy man, brought them on whole wheat tortillas. Hania had to order an extra one on a corn tortilla.
"He should have asked us which type of tortilla we wanted," I said. Hania agreed, but said that, having failed to do that, he had used good judgment. "We look like whole wheat tortilla people," she said.
Saturday morning watched the French Open and then wrote a story about the first week. In the afternoon drove back to Hollywood, to Ryszard and Magda's, to watch the Barcelona-Manchester United match. A cookout followed: sausage, steak, mustard, cwikla (horseradish mixed with grated beets).
In the evening took a stroll on Las Olas, where we ran into a former colleague, walking her chocolate Lab, and avoided running into an ex-boss. Gave a $2 bill to the man playing his guitar outside The Cheesecake Factory, which seemed to make his day. Another man played tangos on a keyboard set up outside Gran Forno.
Sunday morning watched more tennis and sent my story to World Tennis Magazine. In the afternoon walked four laps around the island, then went to the pool, carrying Gosposia prawie do wszystkiego by Monika Szwaja and a Polish-English dictionary.
Around 7 we drove to Boca for a premature birthday dinner at Anatolia, whose fresh-baked bread must be among the best of any restaurant in South Florida. The rest of the meal was pretty good too. Then over to see our friends Don and Joanne, who served us champagne followed by gelato.
Monday morning watched more tennis and read my story online. Went to the gym, then drove down to Hollywood again, this time to the Russian market - called World Market (and people say Americans are egocentric) - where I bought a plastic container of half sour pickles (forest green) and another of cold borscht (flamingo pink).
In the afternoon went down to the pool, though this time with the much easier to read Sunday New York Times. For supper had the borscht, which was delicious, the sign that summer has arrived (at least in the Baltics).
Before bed read an interview online with Paul Theroux. The interviewer said to him: "You don't seem to trust accounts by travelers who haven't stayed in a place for a long time." It was an odd thing to say to a man who has made a career out of riding trains around the world. The obvious follow-up wasn't asked.
Speaking of travel, why is it that in the days before a trip time accelerates, then slows while you sit at the departure gate, before virtually coming to a stop after you board the plane?
