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Every picture we've taken on this trip has been of Belligero. We have him at SFO, at Heathrow, on BART, in front of the Rijksmuseum and standing next to this bizarre hotdog stand ornament. He's getting to see all of the sights.
Amsterdam, at least the part that tourists are prone to wander, is tiny. It's tempting ot see it as one big amusement park. It's beautiful and old. I've never been anywhere where the buildings were this old. I'm still getting used to it, trying not to gawk at every stone carving like it was carved by God himself.
Funny thing yesterday at Central Station. We were trying to find a transit map, and after asking several of the wrong people ("No, this is TRAIN station. Try metro station. NEXT!) we ended up in the tourist info office. The man in front of us left, and a bag remained on the floor. Peter called after him, asking if he'd left his luggage. The woman behind the counter watched, and when the man said it wasn't his bag, she gave the couple next to us a stern, "Hey!"
"This is your bag?"
"Yeah." The young guy kicked the duffle back in front of his feet.
She looked at us, then back at him from over her glasses. The sidelong glance turned into an arched eyebrow glare. He finally noticed her staring at him.
"Next time you have nothing."
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That picture - I call it "American Hotdog Suicide" - is one of my favorites. I've never understood advertising where the food is anthropomorphized and is encouraging you to eat it. Why make yourself more attractive in order to hasten your own end, Hotdog? A.B. got a beef frank at the stand, so apparently he wasn't as affected by the disturbing imagery as I was. It looked delicious. I had a stale mozzarella and tomato sandwich. With basil.
Saturday, September 13, 2008